Below, Stonewake moved like a hive preparing for slaughter.
Rows of archers lined the ramparts, bowstrings plucked and tested by touch, their quivers arranged at their feet in neat rows. The Riftwardens crouched low by the parapets, tracing chalk and blood across stone—glyphs sparking pale against the dark, spiderweb sigils crawling like veins across the walls. Each was designed to flare bright when struck; a warning before the Wards failed.
In the courtyard, Thessia’s voice carried sharp and clear, her glaive propped against her shoulder as she stalked the infantry lines. Shields braced, spears locked, the soldiers of Stonewake stamped in unison at her command, each thud like a heartbeat against the stone. Behind them, carts rattled as supply crews rushed to bury crates of rations and ammunition deeper into the keep, out of reach of the first bombs.
To the far side, Talia and her acolytes lit rows of lamps in the infirmary hall, rolling out cots, laying out bandages and tinctures. They marked the floor with protective glyphs, thin layers of ward-light meant to keep the wounded breathing even when menders faltered.
Above, the mages raised their hands toward the black sky. Illusions shimmered into being—phantom walls, false archers, a glimmering double of the wards themselves. Decoys meant to trick the Gliders into wastingbombs on empty light. Their voices whispered in unison, weaving spell-thread into the cold air until it shimmered like fractured glass.
Zarrek leaned his elbows against the parapet, staring into the nothing. His armor glowed at the seams, red runelight pulsating in time with the glyphs sparking below.
“They’ve done everything,” he muttered. “Every preparation. Every precaution. And still…”
Kailorien’s gaze swept the fortress—soldiers, mages, menders, archers, all locked into place like pieces on a board. His hand clenched on the wall, knuckles whitening beneath the aethersteel bracer. “Still, it won’t be enough.”
“It’ll have to be.” He exhaled. “Never seen you so unsteady before a battle. What’s got you in a knot?”
“You know the answer to that.”
Zarrek folded his arms across his chest. “Let her stand with you.”
“The Resh’Agar doesn’t watch from above,” Kailorien said. “I’m built to be in the middle, tearing everything apart. I don’t want her close to that.”
“She’ll be safer if you can reach her. Tuck her too far away, and you’ll have to hope someone else’s shield is good enough.”
The wind blew strong across the cobblestones, knocking over a brazier. A few men went to right it before the coals could roll too far.
These men that Krystopolis has discarded will now fight for their lives here. Would they still fight if they knew they had nothing to look forward to back home?
“Zarrek,” Resh said, halting. “You know what you must do. If things go poorly.”
“I know what youwant,”Zarrek grunted. “We’ll see how things go.”
Kailorien turned to him, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about? We had a plan. Things go south, you take Auryn, as many men and Riven Blades as you can, and you go to the Veinroads.”
“Have you told your little star that you plan on locking her in the tunnels while you take on an army?”
Kailorien took a step forward. “I’m the Resh’Agar. It must be me.”
“Yes, I’m aware. You can also be killed, even if you think you can’t.” Zarrek huffed. “If you think I’m going to leave you out here alone, you’re more glassed than I thought.”
Hours dragged, each heavier and longer than the next.
Too many days had passed since the Riven’s warning. Too many days of waiting in abject darkness and not knowing when the hammer would fall.
The fortress buzzed like a taut wire, men running drills they’d already run thrice over, checking quivers that were already full, pacing halls worn thin with boots. Every shout rang sharper, every clang of steel echoed too loud. Sparring partners turned on each other. Reskala hit too hard and shouted too loudly. More than once, Thessia had to step in to break up conflict.
Strain wound tight through Stonewake; the whole place felt ready to snap.
Kailorien and Zarrek turned down a narrow corridor that opened toward the second courtyardwhen raised voices cut through the air.
“Say that again, I dare you,” a Reskala snarled, shoving a smaller man hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards, and the Polis light illuminatedRiftwarden’s marks on his face. White chalk dusted the sleeves of his robes. His eyes glittered with fear and fury.
“Aye, I’ll say it again!” the Warden spat. “It’sherfault this is happening. Why else would the Gliders strike now? We’ve had accords, trade routes, balance! They’ve come for her—so give them thevelodyn’ra!”
Thewordagain.
One so cursed it was never spoken aloud.
