They hit the outer traps first. Pits opened. Men fell screaming. We poured arrows down in steady waves until the sky seemed made of wood and iron.
Still they pressed on, climbing over their own dead. I moved to the most threatened section above the main gate, sword ready, voice raw from constant commands.
The first climber reached the parapet. I met him with a cut that opened his shoulder to bone. He fell back, taking another with him.
Darius fought at my right, his good arm working in tight, vicious arcs. The pack held the line with everything left in them, sweat and blood mixing on stone that had seen generations of such days.
Then she came closer.
The witch-blood heir dismounted and walked straight toward the gate, power flickering weakly around her hands. She looked smaller in the daylight, hollowed out by her own hunger. When she spoke, her voice cracked like dry leaves.
