The attack came at night.
It always did.
No horns.
No banners.
Only fire.
A flaming arrow struck the outer tower.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Wood cracked.
Tar burned.
Snow hissed.
Men shouted.
"Positions!" Aren roared.
He was already running.
Sword drawn.
Mind sharp.
Draven soldiers poured from the trees.
White cloaks.
Blending with snow.
Silent killers.
Ladders rose.
Grapples flew.
Lysa's archers answered.
Arrows fell like rain.
Men dropped.
Blood steamed on ice.
Tom raced through corridors.
"West wall breached!"
"South gate burning!"
"Medic tents hit!"
Never stopping.
Never slowing.
Caelis led countercharges.
Shield to shield.
A living wall.
Steel screamed.
Flesh tore.
Aren fought where fire burned brightest.
Cutting ropes.
Toppling ladders.
Driving enemies back.
A blade slashed his arm.
He ignored it.
Explosions thundered.
Draven sappers.
Powder charges.
Stone shattered.
A tower collapsed.
Men vanished beneath snow and rubble.
"Fall back to inner keep!" Aren ordered.
Controlled.
Calm.
Deadly.
They retreated step by step.
Never running.
Never breaking.
At the keep, Draven surged again.
Desperate.
Hungry for victory.
Aren stood on the gatehouse.
Bloody.
Frozen.
Unbowed.
"THIS FORT STANDS!" he roared.
Men answered.
With steel.
With fury.
With faith.
By dawn, silence returned.
Snow covered corpses.
Smoke drifted.
Crows circled.
Frostgate still stood.
Broken.
Scarred.
Alive.
Aren leaned against a wall.
Exhausted.
Bleeding.
Victorious.
And he knew—
Winter had only begun.