The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 41 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 42: Thorns
The air rippled with tension in Edena. Guards paced along the parapets, their eyes sweeping the horizon for any hint of movement, any sign that the uneasy calm might break.
Elvina walked gracefully atop the walls, her steps light, her gaze wandering skyward as a bird darted past. A weary soldier dropped his spear, the clatter echoing against the stone. His gaze lingered on the elf as she passed.
“Eyes up, soldier,” Elvina said with a faint smirk.
Flustered, the man stooped to retrieve his weapon, snapping back into position.
Descending the narrow stone stairs, Elvina paused at a rough-hewn table. She lifted a jug of honey mead, pouring it into a wooden goblet before raising it to her lips.
“Elvina, anything of notice?”
Her father, Vivi, emerged from the annex of the church. She shook her head, silent, and took a sip.
“Neks and Tara have been gone too long,” she murmured, worry threading her voice.
Vivi’s face tightened, but he nodded. “Yes. Far too long. Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”
The skies began to darken, the clouds shifting in a way that felt unnatural, swallowing the bright afternoon sun.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
“We have movement, sir!” a guard called down to Vivi.
Vivi hurried up the ladder into the watchtower. From the height, his eyes locked on the horizon. A few leagues away, a mass of banners and steel advanced. At the front rode Thomaz, Rubian steady at his right hand as always.
Elvina climbed after her father, her breath catching as she joined him at the rail. Vivi’s face drained of colour.
“He’s brought his whole army… all ten thousand of them.”
Elvina’s eyes narrowed, scanning the ranks. “I see only humans. No Humarfs. No Ingmars this time…”
Vivi said nothing at first, his jaw set as the silence stretched. Finally, he exhaled.
“They’re holding their distance for now. We need to get word to Gabija and Althor… and somehow reach Neks and Tara.”
Tivor hauled himself up the ladder, boots thudding against the wood, and joined them at the rail.
“Hmm,” he rumbled, voice rough as gravel. “Always trust the prick and thorn to ruin a decent silence.”
Vivi didn’t bite. He only glanced at him. “We need to get a message out, Tivor. Any ideas?”
Tivor scratched at his beard, clearing his throat before answering.
“Meera to the dwarves. Timtur to the elves. Nekira’s closer than Tara—I can seek him out myself. But Tara…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how we reach her.”
A low, rolling purr vibrated through the timbers above them. Heads snapped upward just as two furry faces appeared over the roof’s edge—Tabby and Blacky, their golden eyes gleaming.
“If Snowy is with Tara and Elqiana,” they chimed in unison, their voices uncanny, “we can reach her. Us were-cats have our ways.”
Elvina turned to Tivor, brow arched.
“It’ll take you too long to reach Neks as a raven. How are you going to get to him?”
Tivor’s scarred mouth pulled into a smirk. His body rippled, bones shifting, flesh stretching, until a sleek black cheetah stood where the man had been.
Elvina chuckled, shaking her head. “Well… that’ll do it.”
Vivi snorted. “Show off.”
In a blink, Tivor’s form broke again, feathers bursting from fur—this time a raven. With a sharp cry, he launched from the watchtower, wings beating hard against the wind. He soared over the wall, then dove low. Mid-swoop, his body snapped back into the cheetah, hitting the ground at a sprint. Dust curled in his wake as he tore across the field, vanishing into the distance.
Vivi allowed himself a faint smile. “Definitely a show-off.”
He turned back to his daughter. “Can you hold the watch from here?”
Elvina nodded firmly.
Without another word, Vivi descended the ladder, boots clanging against the rungs, and strode into the courtyard to find Meera and Timtur, already preparing for their orders.
King Thomaz reined in his horse at the crest of a rise, the scar carved across his face pulling taut as he smiled. It wasn’t a smile of joy—it was too sharp, too stretched, too wrong. His eyes burned with a feverish gleam as he stared at Edena’s walls in the distance.
“Vivi…” he whispered, the name like a curse. “Sitting in my city, waiting for my crown… but I’ll cut it from your head myself.”
His fingers flexed against the reins, twitching as though they longed for a sword hilt.
Rubian sat astride his horse to Thomaz’s right, still as stone. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d arrived. His gaze swept the horizon, not in calculation but in hunger—watching the fortress, imagining blood soaking the fields. His silence was heavier than words.
Behind them, the army moved with the dull efficiency of routine. Canvas stretched into tents, fire pits spat smoke into the darkening sky, iron rang against stone as men prepared the ground for war.
But Thomaz never looked back at them. His world narrowed to the walls of Edena, and to the man he believed crouched behind them. His lips twitched, muttering again, this time to himself, almost childlike:
“You won’t take it from me. No, no… it’s mine. Always mine.”
Rubian’s head tilted slightly, catching the mutter. A grin ghosted across his face, faint but feral. He didn’t care for thrones, or crowns, or kings. He cared for the screams that would soon rise from Edena’s stones.
From the watchtower, Elvina leaned over the rail, her fingers gripping the stone. Beyond the fields, the enemy camp was coming alive—rows of tents sprouting like weeds, smoke rising from fresh-dug fire pits, the faint clamour of hammers carrying on the wind.
She swallowed hard. Ten thousand men, moving with practised ease, as if they had all the time in the world.
Her eyes found the figures at the front: Thomaz, perched on his horse, unmoving, staring straight at Edena. Even from this distance, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Beside him sat Rubian, a dark silhouette who radiated menace in his stillness.
Elvina’s breath caught. For a moment, it felt as though the two men were already inside the walls, pressing in around her. She forced herself to blink, to steady her hands on the cold stone.
The soldiers along the parapets had fallen quiet too, their usual chatter stilled. One of them muttered a curse under his breath. Another crossed himself.
Elvina drew herself upright, raising her voice just enough for those nearest to hear.
“Eyes open. They want us afraid. Don’t give them that.”
The barracks smelled of sweat and oil, the air heavy with the scrape of steel on whetstones and the rustle of men and women preparing for what lay ahead.
Vivi pushed through the doorway, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
“Colm,” he called.
The grizzled captain straightened from a table crowded with maps.
“Three thousand soldiers ready, my lord,” Colm reported. “And near a thousand civilians volunteering. They’re… searching for what armour they can.”
Vivi’s eyes swept the hall. Along one wall, men and women rummaged through crates—strapping dented breastplates to their chests, testing helmets too big or too small, tightening old belts and scabbards. Most of them had never held a blade outside of training or hunting, but their faces were set, hard with determination.
He walked toward them, the crowd parting as he raised his voice.
“Listen to me. Out there waits an army ten thousand strong. They did not come to frighten us—they came to burn Edena to the ground. People will die before this war is done.”
Silence spread through the hall, heavy and cold.
Then, from the front of the group, a stout man with calloused hands and a soot-streaked face stepped forward. His voice carried, rough but steady.
“A man with heart is stronger than five of those who aren’t.”
A ripple stirred through the gathered civilians. Some nodded. Some straightened their backs.
Vivi met the man’s eyes and inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“There’s just under four thousand of us,” Vivi said, counting on his fingers as if the numbers might shift if he looked away. “We don’t know if help will come in time. We need a plan — something to delay their advance if they decide to press us.”
A tavern keeper pushed through the crowd, face flushed but steady. “I’ve got ale enough to burn,” he said. “Clay jugs, tar—mix it right and it’ll cling to leather.”
A blacksmith stepped up next, arms like bent hammers. “Oil. Barrels of it in the forge stores. Enough to soak stakes and thatch.” He spat on the floor as if sealing the deal.
Two women moved forward together, palms blackened from work. “We may not stand in the front,” one said, “but we can make arrows, sharpen stakes, set traps. Give us tools and we’ll make them deadly.”
The barracks hummed with a sudden, dangerous industry. Men inspected spears, women measured lengths of timber, children gathered nails and cord. The practical clatter of preparation swallowed the earlier fear.
Vivi walked among them, his voice low but bright with something fierce. “You’d do that? All of you?”
They answered with a dozen small motions — a nod, a set jaw, a hand on a hip.
“In this moment, as keeper of Edena,” Vivi said, and his chest swelled with a quiet pride that made his words heavier, “I have never been prouder.”
Colm stepped forward, map already in hand. “Right. Trenches beyond the outer boundary — deep enough to stop a charge. Stakes, sharpened and greased. Burnable jars prepared and stationed at choke points. Fire pits for the campfires we can’t let them have. Work in shifts. No one stops until I say.”
He pointed, and the barracks exploded into order; men and women broke into teams, hauling shovels, sawing planks, passing barrels in single-file like a living chain.
At the edge of the commotion, Meera’s shoulders shivered. With a single breath she folded in on herself, feathers sprouting in a blur — a small swallow catching the light — and she slipped through a gap in the wall. Timtur, grinning, twitched once and shrank into the quick, bushy form of a squirrel; he dropped from a beam and scurried into the eaves. Both moved with practised silence, carrying orders to the elves and dwarves as they had been told.
Dust rose where hands and tools met earth. The work would be brutal, the night short, but for the first time the fear in Edena felt like fuel rather than poison.
The ground outside Edena broke under the bite of shovels. Soldiers and civilians alike dug shoulder to shoulder, sweat streaking through dust and dirt as trenches carved across the plain in jagged lines. Wooden stakes, freshly hewn, were hammered into the earth, their points sharpened to wicked edges before being slathered in oil.
Children ran with buckets of water, men hauled barrels of pitch, women bundled arrows by the dozen. The city moved as one. The sound of work carried on the wind — steel on wood, voices barking orders, the grunt and strain of hands refusing to falter.
Far off, in the tall grass beyond bowshot, shadows moved. Thomaz’s scouts — lean men in dark leathers, faces hidden behind hoods — crept low to the ground. They counted the trenches, marked the stake lines, whispered to one another in hushed tones.
A shovel clanged against rock. The sound rang out across the fields. The nearest scout froze, eyes narrowing toward the walls. He raised a hand, signalling to the others. For a moment, the plain was still.
Then a sentry atop the battlements drew back his bow, arrow trained on the grass. The scouts melted away into the dusk, silent as ghosts, leaving only the sway of stalks in their wake.
Back inside the walls, torches flared to life as night pressed down. The trenches deepened, the stakes bristled, the defences grew. Edena bled sweat into the earth, buying time with every stroke of a spade.
And in the distance, the glow of ten thousand campfires rose, hemming them in like a burning ring.
From atop a low ridge, Thomaz watched the trenches snake across the plain. The glow of torches and the rhythmic clamour of work reached his ears, each hammer strike like a drum counting down to war.
He swung his scarred face toward Rubian. “So, they move,” he muttered, teeth clenched. His eyes gleamed with something dark, almost feverish. “They think this will stop us…”
Rubian didn’t reply. His horse shifted, muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes fixed on the fortress. He let the sight of the stakes and trenches sink in, a slow grin forming across his face. “It won’t,” he said finally, voice low and harsh. “And it will hurt them. Every last one of them.”
Thomaz’s hand tightened on his reins. “Patience, Rubian. Let them dig themselves in. Let them exhaust themselves. We’ll break them.”
The scouts returned, moving like shadows, reporting the layout of the stakes and trenches. Thomaz nodded, absorbing each word, his mind working through permutations, angles of attack, weaknesses to exploit.
“They’ll be ready for fire and arrows,” he said, a twisted smile curling his lips. “But patience… patience is my ally.”
Rubian tilted his head, as though tasting the fear that simmered from the fortress. “And when they’re tired, we’ll finish it. Pain first, then death. That’s all I need to know.”
Thomaz’s eyes flicked back to Edena, the walls glowing in torchlight. “Vivi will die before his city falls. I will see to that myself.”
Rubian’s grin widened. No words were needed. Together, they waited, predators studying the prey who thought they could build a fortress out of sweat and hope.
A shadow slipped through the tall grass beyond the trenches, moving with careful, deliberate steps. A scout from Thomaz’s army, low to the ground, eyes darting between the fortifications, inching closer to Edena’s walls.
Elvina’s sharp eyes caught the movement from the watchtower, her breath catching as instinct kicked in. She nocked an arrow, drew the string, and let her gaze track the scout’s every twitch.
The figure froze, sensing something, but it was too late. The arrow whistled through the air, striking the ground just a few feet in front of him, dirt spraying like a warning flare.
He cursed under his breath, scrambling back toward the cover of the grass, and disappeared from sight.
Elvina lowered her bow, heart pounding, and muttered under her breath, “Not so close…”
From below, the soldiers glanced up at her, recognising the signal. The warning was clear: Edena’s eyes were everywhere.
Boots thudded on the ladder rungs. Vivi pulled himself up onto the watchtower, brushing dust from his tunic as he stepped beside Elvina.
“Report,” he said quietly.
Elvina kept her bow resting against the parapet, eyes scanning the fields. “One of Thomaz’s scouts came close. I warned him off. He won’t try again tonight.”
Vivi gave a curt nod. Before he could speak further, Elvina stiffened, her gaze drifting higher, beyond the plains and trenches, toward the mountains.
“Father… look.”
Thin fingers of smoke curled into the sky, rising from the distant ridges. It was faint, barely visible against the dusk, but steady—controlled.
Vivi’s eyes widened, and for the first time that night, his chest eased. “The dwarves,” he murmured. “They’ve answered.”
Elvina’s lips curved, relief softening her features. She whispered, “Meera reached them.”
The smoke faded into the evening sky, unnoticed by Thomaz’s camp, where firelight already glowed from thousands of careless flames.
“They have no idea,” Vivi said, a rare smile tugging at the edge of his face. “Not yet.”
The camp sprawled across the plains like a dark tide. Fires burned in scattered pits, tents pitched in neat rows, soldiers eating, laughing, and brawling, unaware of the smoke rising in the distant mountains.
Thomaz sat astride his horse at the centre, scarred face illuminated by the flickering flames. His eyes, dark and feverish, swept over the camp, never lingering on anyone too long. He spat into the dirt.
“They dig,” he said, voice low and venomous. “Little holes and sticks. Trenches. Stakes. They think they can hold me here?”
A chorus of uneasy murmurs rose from his lieutenants. Each one kept their heads down, staring at the ground, waiting for the next snap of his tongue.
Rubian leaned against his saddle, silent, teeth bared in a thin, predatory grin. He cared nothing for strategy or crowns, only the thrill of destruction.
Thomaz’s eyes narrowed as he gestured at the distant walls. “Watch them scrabble in the dirt like vermin. Pathetic. Do they think this will matter? That I will hesitate? No. Every man, every woman, every child—they are nothing. Nothing.”
A general shifted nervously, mumbling about the trenches. Thomaz’s lip curled in disgust. “You would worry over this? This dirt and wood? Ha! I have seen stronger defenses shattered before breakfast. And yet you tremble. Pathetic.”
The lieutenants flinched at his laughter, the sound jagged and unhinged, echoing across the camp. Soldiers glanced at each other nervously, sensing the storm in their king, but unwilling to speak.
“Send scouts,” Thomaz snapped suddenly, eyes blazing. “Every inch of that fortress watched. Every path, every wall. Nothing escapes my gaze. And if they think they are clever…” He leaned close to Rubian, voice dropping to a hiss, “they will learn how quickly clever dies.”
The camp fell silent, the fires burning on, soldiers uneasy and restless, yet oblivious to the message now rising like smoke over the mountains. Thomaz didn’t care. Not for his men, not for Edena, not even for the crown that drove his obsession. Only for himself, and the destruction he promised to deliver.
Night fell over Edena like a velvet shroud, the trenches and stakes barely visible under the moonlight. The air was thick with anticipation, every rustle in the grass amplified in the stillness.
From the shadows beyond the outer perimeter, movement flickered. A small group of Thomaz’s scouts crept forward, testing the walls, probing for weaknesses. Their leather armor whispered with each careful step.
Elvina’s eyes snapped to the motion from the watchtower. She nocked an arrow without a sound, breath steady, muscles coiled like a spring. A single release, and the arrow hissed through the night, striking a scout in the shoulder. He stumbled, yelping silently, and his companions froze.
Vivi stood below, staff in one hand, his orange-bladed sword glowing faintly in the moonlight. When the first scout broke cover, Vivi met him with the blade and staff in a fluid, practiced motion. One strike to the shoulder, a spin, and another scout’s dagger was blocked before it could even rise. Each move precise, lethal, leaving the attackers disoriented.
Elvina’s arrows flew in silence, cutting off escape routes, forcing the scouts back into the darkness. Vivi’s blade flashed, a streak of orange in the black, every movement economical and deadly.
Within moments, the scouts were retreating, stumbling over stakes and trenches as they fled, leaving only the faintest traces of their intrusion.
Elvina lowered her bow, eyes sharp, scanning the field for any other movement. Vivi exhaled slowly, straightening, the glow of his sword fading as he sheathed it.
“Good,” he whispered, voice low. “They’ll think twice before testing us again tonight.”
Elvina nodded, her smile faint but satisfied. “Let them try.”
The night settled back over Edena, quiet but tense, every shadow now a reminder: even a small breach could be deadly, and they were ready.
A rider appeared at the edge of Thomaz’s camp, stumbling through the torchlight, panic etched across his features. He was one of the scouts sent out earlier, and he had returned empty-handed.
Thomaz’s scarred face twisted with rage. “Empty-handed?!” he barked, voice snapping like a whip. His horse reared, but he didn’t wait—he vaulted down, boots hitting the dirt with a deadly thud.
The scout tried to step back, eyes wide, but Thomaz was already on him. He grabbed the man by the head, yanking him close enough to smell the fear. “You dare fail me?!” Thomaz’s voice hissed through clenched teeth.
The lieutenants and soldiers nearby froze, silent, watching the spectacle in a mix of terror and disbelief. Thomaz’s blows rained down, precise and brutal, each one echoing against the nearby tents. The scout’s screams choked off, cut short by the relentless assault.
When the scout finally crumpled to the ground, Thomaz raised his boot and stamped down hard on the man’s head, ending his life in a single, merciless motion. Blood and dust mixed, soaking the dirt beneath them.
Thomaz straightened, chest heaving, and glared at the gathered soldiers. “Let this be a lesson,” he spat. “Failure will not be tolerated. Not from any of you. Not ever.”
Rubian’s grin flickered in the firelight, thin and predatory. No words were needed; the fear in the camp was enough to enforce obedience.
Thomaz remounted his horse, eyes still burning with a manic intensity, scanning the horizon. “Edena will burn,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “And every soul in it will know the price of defiance.”
A lone scout crept through the tall grass, moving cautiously toward the outer edges of Edena. His eyes darted toward the faint glow of torches along the walls, calculating the safest route to slip unseen past the defences.
But the defenders had prepared more than stakes and trenches. The scout stepped onto a thin, nearly invisible wire stretched across the ground. There was a sharp snap as the bear trap clamped shut around his leg, the iron teeth biting clean through bone.
The scout screamed, the sound tearing through the night, raw and jagged. He clawed at the trap, but it held fast, pinning him like a rat in a cage. The scream echoed across the fields, alerting soldiers and civilians alike.
From the watchtower, Elvina’s eyes narrowed. She raised her bow, drew an arrow, and let it fly with silent precision. The shaft struck the scout squarely in the skull, ending his agony instantly.
The night fell silent again, save for the faint hiss of the wind over the grass. The trap and the fallen scout were the only reminders that Edena’s defenders were watching — and ready.
Elvina lowered her bow, breathing steady, and whispered under her breath, “Don’t come any closer.”
Thomaz stood next to his horse, the flickering torchlight of his camp casting sharp shadows across his scarred face. He scanned the plains, eyes narrowed, yet unaware of the losses his army had already suffered. Scouts he had sent, probing Edena’s defences, had vanished into the night—some never to return.
His jaw tightened, a low growl rumbling from his chest. “Why… why do they persist?” he muttered, voice uneven, almost unhinged. “Little rats in the dirt, daring to defy me. Do they think I will wait patiently?”
Rubian sat silently beside him, watching Thomaz’s tension grow with a predator’s patience. The king’s paranoia and rage fed the air, thick and suffocating, spilling over the camp.
One of the lieutenants shuffled forward nervously, bowing his head. “My lord… the scouts—”
Thomaz’s eyes snapped toward him, blazing. “Do not speak of failure! Every man out there knows the price of defiance. Every man! And yet… yet they still crawl toward Edena as if… as if I care to wait!”
He slammed his fist against the pommel of his saddle, teeth bared in a manic snarl. “I will crush them! Every last one!”
The soldiers around him flinched, fear tightening their throats. Even the bravest men dared not meet his gaze. Rubian didn’t react, he didn’t care for crowns or cities, only the violence that Thomaz’s fury promised.
The camp hummed with nervous energy, torches flaring, soldiers shifting uneasily. Thomaz’s paranoia festered into rage, each lost scout a phantom he could feel but not see, driving him further toward madness
Chapter 42: Thorns
The air rippled with tension in Edena. Guards paced along the parapets, their eyes sweeping the horizon for any hint of movement, any sign that the uneasy calm might break.
Elvina walked gracefully atop the walls, her steps light, her gaze wandering skyward as a bird darted past. A weary soldier dropped his spear, the clatter echoing against the stone. His gaze lingered on the elf as she passed.
“Eyes up, soldier,” Elvina said with a faint smirk.
Flustered, the man stooped to retrieve his weapon, snapping back into position.
Descending the narrow stone stairs, Elvina paused at a rough-hewn table. She lifted a jug of honey mead, pouring it into a wooden goblet before raising it to her lips.
“Elvina, anything of notice?”
Her father, Vivi, emerged from the annex of the church. She shook her head, silent, and took a sip.
“Neks and Tara have been gone too long,” she murmured, worry threading her voice.
Vivi’s face tightened, but he nodded. “Yes. Far too long. Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”
The skies began to darken, the clouds shifting in a way that felt unnatural, swallowing the bright afternoon sun.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
“We have movement, sir!” a guard called down to Vivi.
Vivi hurried up the ladder into the watchtower. From the height, his eyes locked on the horizon. A few leagues away, a mass of banners and steel advanced. At the front rode Thomaz, Rubian steady at his right hand as always.
Elvina climbed after her father, her breath catching as she joined him at the rail. Vivi’s face drained of colour.
“He’s brought his whole army… all ten thousand of them.”
Elvina’s eyes narrowed, scanning the ranks. “I see only humans. No Humarfs. No Ingmars this time…”
Vivi said nothing at first, his jaw set as the silence stretched. Finally, he exhaled.
“They’re holding their distance for now. We need to get word to Gabija and Althor… and somehow reach Neks and Tara.”
Tivor hauled himself up the ladder, boots thudding against the wood, and joined them at the rail.
“Hmm,” he rumbled, voice rough as gravel. “Always trust the prick and thorn to ruin a decent silence.”
Vivi didn’t bite. He only glanced at him. “We need to get a message out, Tivor. Any ideas?”
Tivor scratched at his beard, clearing his throat before answering.
“Meera to the dwarves. Timtur to the elves. Nekira’s closer than Tara—I can seek him out myself. But Tara…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how we reach her.”
A low, rolling purr vibrated through the timbers above them. Heads snapped upward just as two furry faces appeared over the roof’s edge—Tabby and Blacky, their golden eyes gleaming.
“If Snowy is with Tara and Elqiana,” they chimed in unison, their voices uncanny, “we can reach her. Us were-cats have our ways.”
Elvina turned to Tivor, brow arched.
“It’ll take you too long to reach Neks as a raven. How are you going to get to him?”
Tivor’s scarred mouth pulled into a smirk. His body rippled, bones shifting, flesh stretching, until a sleek black cheetah stood where the man had been.
Elvina chuckled, shaking her head. “Well… that’ll do it.”
Vivi snorted. “Show off.”
In a blink, Tivor’s form broke again, feathers bursting from fur—this time a raven. With a sharp cry, he launched from the watchtower, wings beating hard against the wind. He soared over the wall, then dove low. Mid-swoop, his body snapped back into the cheetah, hitting the ground at a sprint. Dust curled in his wake as he tore across the field, vanishing into the distance.
Vivi allowed himself a faint smile. “Definitely a show-off.”
He turned back to his daughter. “Can you hold the watch from here?”
Elvina nodded firmly.
Without another word, Vivi descended the ladder, boots clanging against the rungs, and strode into the courtyard to find Meera and Timtur, already preparing for their orders.
King Thomaz reined in his horse at the crest of a rise, the scar carved across his face pulling taut as he smiled. It wasn’t a smile of joy—it was too sharp, too stretched, too wrong. His eyes burned with a feverish gleam as he stared at Edena’s walls in the distance.
“Vivi…” he whispered, the name like a curse. “Sitting in my city, waiting for my crown… but I’ll cut it from your head myself.”
His fingers flexed against the reins, twitching as though they longed for a sword hilt.
Rubian sat astride his horse to Thomaz’s right, still as stone. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d arrived. His gaze swept the horizon, not in calculation but in hunger—watching the fortress, imagining blood soaking the fields. His silence was heavier than words.
Behind them, the army moved with the dull efficiency of routine. Canvas stretched into tents, fire pits spat smoke into the darkening sky, iron rang against stone as men prepared the ground for war.
But Thomaz never looked back at them. His world narrowed to the walls of Edena, and to the man he believed crouched behind them. His lips twitched, muttering again, this time to himself, almost childlike:
“You won’t take it from me. No, no… it’s mine. Always mine.”
Rubian’s head tilted slightly, catching the mutter. A grin ghosted across his face, faint but feral. He didn’t care for thrones, or crowns, or kings. He cared for the screams that would soon rise from Edena’s stones.
From the watchtower, Elvina leaned over the rail, her fingers gripping the stone. Beyond the fields, the enemy camp was coming alive—rows of tents sprouting like weeds, smoke rising from fresh-dug fire pits, the faint clamour of hammers carrying on the wind.
She swallowed hard. Ten thousand men, moving with practised ease, as if they had all the time in the world.
Her eyes found the figures at the front: Thomaz, perched on his horse, unmoving, staring straight at Edena. Even from this distance, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Beside him sat Rubian, a dark silhouette who radiated menace in his stillness.
Elvina’s breath caught. For a moment, it felt as though the two men were already inside the walls, pressing in around her. She forced herself to blink, to steady her hands on the cold stone.
The soldiers along the parapets had fallen quiet too, their usual chatter stilled. One of them muttered a curse under his breath. Another crossed himself.
Elvina drew herself upright, raising her voice just enough for those nearest to hear.
“Eyes open. They want us afraid. Don’t give them that.”
The barracks smelled of sweat and oil, the air heavy with the scrape of steel on whetstones and the rustle of men and women preparing for what lay ahead.
Vivi pushed through the doorway, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
“Colm,” he called.
The grizzled captain straightened from a table crowded with maps.
“Three thousand soldiers ready, my lord,” Colm reported. “And near a thousand civilians volunteering. They’re… searching for what armour they can.”
Vivi’s eyes swept the hall. Along one wall, men and women rummaged through crates—strapping dented breastplates to their chests, testing helmets too big or too small, tightening old belts and scabbards. Most of them had never held a blade outside of training or hunting, but their faces were set, hard with determination.
He walked toward them, the crowd parting as he raised his voice.
“Listen to me. Out there waits an army ten thousand strong. They did not come to frighten us—they came to burn Edena to the ground. People will die before this war is done.”
Silence spread through the hall, heavy and cold.
Then, from the front of the group, a stout man with calloused hands and a soot-streaked face stepped forward. His voice carried, rough but steady.
“A man with heart is stronger than five of those who aren’t.”
A ripple stirred through the gathered civilians. Some nodded. Some straightened their backs.
Vivi met the man’s eyes and inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“There’s just under four thousand of us,” Vivi said, counting on his fingers as if the numbers might shift if he looked away. “We don’t know if help will come in time. We need a plan — something to delay their advance if they decide to press us.”
A tavern keeper pushed through the crowd, face flushed but steady. “I’ve got ale enough to burn,” he said. “Clay jugs, tar—mix it right and it’ll cling to leather.”
A blacksmith stepped up next, arms like bent hammers. “Oil. Barrels of it in the forge stores. Enough to soak stakes and thatch.” He spat on the floor as if sealing the deal.
Two women moved forward together, palms blackened from work. “We may not stand in the front,” one said, “but we can make arrows, sharpen stakes, set traps. Give us tools and we’ll make them deadly.”
The barracks hummed with a sudden, dangerous industry. Men inspected spears, women measured lengths of timber, children gathered nails and cord. The practical clatter of preparation swallowed the earlier fear.
Vivi walked among them, his voice low but bright with something fierce. “You’d do that? All of you?”
They answered with a dozen small motions — a nod, a set jaw, a hand on a hip.
“In this moment, as keeper of Edena,” Vivi said, and his chest swelled with a quiet pride that made his words heavier, “I have never been prouder.”
Colm stepped forward, map already in hand. “Right. Trenches beyond the outer boundary — deep enough to stop a charge. Stakes, sharpened and greased. Burnable jars prepared and stationed at choke points. Fire pits for the campfires we can’t let them have. Work in shifts. No one stops until I say.”
He pointed, and the barracks exploded into order; men and women broke into teams, hauling shovels, sawing planks, passing barrels in single-file like a living chain.
At the edge of the commotion, Meera’s shoulders shivered. With a single breath she folded in on herself, feathers sprouting in a blur — a small swallow catching the light — and she slipped through a gap in the wall. Timtur, grinning, twitched once and shrank into the quick, bushy form of a squirrel; he dropped from a beam and scurried into the eaves. Both moved with practised silence, carrying orders to the elves and dwarves as they had been told.
Dust rose where hands and tools met earth. The work would be brutal, the night short, but for the first time the fear in Edena felt like fuel rather than poison.
The ground outside Edena broke under the bite of shovels. Soldiers and civilians alike dug shoulder to shoulder, sweat streaking through dust and dirt as trenches carved across the plain in jagged lines. Wooden stakes, freshly hewn, were hammered into the earth, their points sharpened to wicked edges before being slathered in oil.
Children ran with buckets of water, men hauled barrels of pitch, women bundled arrows by the dozen. The city moved as one. The sound of work carried on the wind — steel on wood, voices barking orders, the grunt and strain of hands refusing to falter.
Far off, in the tall grass beyond bowshot, shadows moved. Thomaz’s scouts — lean men in dark leathers, faces hidden behind hoods — crept low to the ground. They counted the trenches, marked the stake lines, whispered to one another in hushed tones.
A shovel clanged against rock. The sound rang out across the fields. The nearest scout froze, eyes narrowing toward the walls. He raised a hand, signalling to the others. For a moment, the plain was still.
Then a sentry atop the battlements drew back his bow, arrow trained on the grass. The scouts melted away into the dusk, silent as ghosts, leaving only the sway of stalks in their wake.
Back inside the walls, torches flared to life as night pressed down. The trenches deepened, the stakes bristled, the defences grew. Edena bled sweat into the earth, buying time with every stroke of a spade.
And in the distance, the glow of ten thousand campfires rose, hemming them in like a burning ring.
From atop a low ridge, Thomaz watched the trenches snake across the plain. The glow of torches and the rhythmic clamour of work reached his ears, each hammer strike like a drum counting down to war.
He swung his scarred face toward Rubian. “So, they move,” he muttered, teeth clenched. His eyes gleamed with something dark, almost feverish. “They think this will stop us…”
Rubian didn’t reply. His horse shifted, muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes fixed on the fortress. He let the sight of the stakes and trenches sink in, a slow grin forming across his face. “It won’t,” he said finally, voice low and harsh. “And it will hurt them. Every last one of them.”
Thomaz’s hand tightened on his reins. “Patience, Rubian. Let them dig themselves in. Let them exhaust themselves. We’ll break them.”
The scouts returned, moving like shadows, reporting the layout of the stakes and trenches. Thomaz nodded, absorbing each word, his mind working through permutations, angles of attack, weaknesses to exploit.
“They’ll be ready for fire and arrows,” he said, a twisted smile curling his lips. “But patience… patience is my ally.”
Rubian tilted his head, as though tasting the fear that simmered from the fortress. “And when they’re tired, we’ll finish it. Pain first, then death. That’s all I need to know.”
Thomaz’s eyes flicked back to Edena, the walls glowing in torchlight. “Vivi will die before his city falls. I will see to that myself.”
Rubian’s grin widened. No words were needed. Together, they waited, predators studying the prey who thought they could build a fortress out of sweat and hope.
A shadow slipped through the tall grass beyond the trenches, moving with careful, deliberate steps. A scout from Thomaz’s army, low to the ground, eyes darting between the fortifications, inching closer to Edena’s walls.
Elvina’s sharp eyes caught the movement from the watchtower, her breath catching as instinct kicked in. She nocked an arrow, drew the string, and let her gaze track the scout’s every twitch.
The figure froze, sensing something, but it was too late. The arrow whistled through the air, striking the ground just a few feet in front of him, dirt spraying like a warning flare.
He cursed under his breath, scrambling back toward the cover of the grass, and disappeared from sight.
Elvina lowered her bow, heart pounding, and muttered under her breath, “Not so close…”
From below, the soldiers glanced up at her, recognising the signal. The warning was clear: Edena’s eyes were everywhere.
Boots thudded on the ladder rungs. Vivi pulled himself up onto the watchtower, brushing dust from his tunic as he stepped beside Elvina.
“Report,” he said quietly.
Elvina kept her bow resting against the parapet, eyes scanning the fields. “One of Thomaz’s scouts came close. I warned him off. He won’t try again tonight.”
Vivi gave a curt nod. Before he could speak further, Elvina stiffened, her gaze drifting higher, beyond the plains and trenches, toward the mountains.
“Father… look.”
Thin fingers of smoke curled into the sky, rising from the distant ridges. It was faint, barely visible against the dusk, but steady—controlled.
Vivi’s eyes widened, and for the first time that night, his chest eased. “The dwarves,” he murmured. “They’ve answered.”
Elvina’s lips curved, relief softening her features. She whispered, “Meera reached them.”
The smoke faded into the evening sky, unnoticed by Thomaz’s camp, where firelight already glowed from thousands of careless flames.
“They have no idea,” Vivi said, a rare smile tugging at the edge of his face. “Not yet.”
The camp sprawled across the plains like a dark tide. Fires burned in scattered pits, tents pitched in neat rows, soldiers eating, laughing, and brawling, unaware of the smoke rising in the distant mountains.
Thomaz sat astride his horse at the centre, scarred face illuminated by the flickering flames. His eyes, dark and feverish, swept over the camp, never lingering on anyone too long. He spat into the dirt.
“They dig,” he said, voice low and venomous. “Little holes and sticks. Trenches. Stakes. They think they can hold me here?”
A chorus of uneasy murmurs rose from his lieutenants. Each one kept their heads down, staring at the ground, waiting for the next snap of his tongue.
Rubian leaned against his saddle, silent, teeth bared in a thin, predatory grin. He cared nothing for strategy or crowns, only the thrill of destruction.
Thomaz’s eyes narrowed as he gestured at the distant walls. “Watch them scrabble in the dirt like vermin. Pathetic. Do they think this will matter? That I will hesitate? No. Every man, every woman, every child—they are nothing. Nothing.”
A general shifted nervously, mumbling about the trenches. Thomaz’s lip curled in disgust. “You would worry over this? This dirt and wood? Ha! I have seen stronger defenses shattered before breakfast. And yet you tremble. Pathetic.”
The lieutenants flinched at his laughter, the sound jagged and unhinged, echoing across the camp. Soldiers glanced at each other nervously, sensing the storm in their king, but unwilling to speak.
“Send scouts,” Thomaz snapped suddenly, eyes blazing. “Every inch of that fortress watched. Every path, every wall. Nothing escapes my gaze. And if they think they are clever…” He leaned close to Rubian, voice dropping to a hiss, “they will learn how quickly clever dies.”
The camp fell silent, the fires burning on, soldiers uneasy and restless, yet oblivious to the message now rising like smoke over the mountains. Thomaz didn’t care. Not for his men, not for Edena, not even for the crown that drove his obsession. Only for himself, and the destruction he promised to deliver.
Night fell over Edena like a velvet shroud, the trenches and stakes barely visible under the moonlight. The air was thick with anticipation, every rustle in the grass amplified in the stillness.
From the shadows beyond the outer perimeter, movement flickered. A small group of Thomaz’s scouts crept forward, testing the walls, probing for weaknesses. Their leather armor whispered with each careful step.
Elvina’s eyes snapped to the motion from the watchtower. She nocked an arrow without a sound, breath steady, muscles coiled like a spring. A single release, and the arrow hissed through the night, striking a scout in the shoulder. He stumbled, yelping silently, and his companions froze.
Vivi stood below, staff in one hand, his orange-bladed sword glowing faintly in the moonlight. When the first scout broke cover, Vivi met him with the blade and staff in a fluid, practiced motion. One strike to the shoulder, a spin, and another scout’s dagger was blocked before it could even rise. Each move precise, lethal, leaving the attackers disoriented.
Elvina’s arrows flew in silence, cutting off escape routes, forcing the scouts back into the darkness. Vivi’s blade flashed, a streak of orange in the black, every movement economical and deadly.
Within moments, the scouts were retreating, stumbling over stakes and trenches as they fled, leaving only the faintest traces of their intrusion.
Elvina lowered her bow, eyes sharp, scanning the field for any other movement. Vivi exhaled slowly, straightening, the glow of his sword fading as he sheathed it.
“Good,” he whispered, voice low. “They’ll think twice before testing us again tonight.”
Elvina nodded, her smile faint but satisfied. “Let them try.”
The night settled back over Edena, quiet but tense, every shadow now a reminder: even a small breach could be deadly, and they were ready.
A rider appeared at the edge of Thomaz’s camp, stumbling through the torchlight, panic etched across his features. He was one of the scouts sent out earlier, and he had returned empty-handed.
Thomaz’s scarred face twisted with rage. “Empty-handed?!” he barked, voice snapping like a whip. His horse reared, but he didn’t wait—he vaulted down, boots hitting the dirt with a deadly thud.
The scout tried to step back, eyes wide, but Thomaz was already on him. He grabbed the man by the head, yanking him close enough to smell the fear. “You dare fail me?!” Thomaz’s voice hissed through clenched teeth.
The lieutenants and soldiers nearby froze, silent, watching the spectacle in a mix of terror and disbelief. Thomaz’s blows rained down, precise and brutal, each one echoing against the nearby tents. The scout’s screams choked off, cut short by the relentless assault.
When the scout finally crumpled to the ground, Thomaz raised his boot and stamped down hard on the man’s head, ending his life in a single, merciless motion. Blood and dust mixed, soaking the dirt beneath them.
Thomaz straightened, chest heaving, and glared at the gathered soldiers. “Let this be a lesson,” he spat. “Failure will not be tolerated. Not from any of you. Not ever.”
Rubian’s grin flickered in the firelight, thin and predatory. No words were needed; the fear in the camp was enough to enforce obedience.
Thomaz remounted his horse, eyes still burning with a manic intensity, scanning the horizon. “Edena will burn,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “And every soul in it will know the price of defiance.”
A lone scout crept through the tall grass, moving cautiously toward the outer edges of Edena. His eyes darted toward the faint glow of torches along the walls, calculating the safest route to slip unseen past the defences.
But the defenders had prepared more than stakes and trenches. The scout stepped onto a thin, nearly invisible wire stretched across the ground. There was a sharp snap as the bear trap clamped shut around his leg, the iron teeth biting clean through bone.
The scout screamed, the sound tearing through the night, raw and jagged. He clawed at the trap, but it held fast, pinning him like a rat in a cage. The scream echoed across the fields, alerting soldiers and civilians alike.
From the watchtower, Elvina’s eyes narrowed. She raised her bow, drew an arrow, and let it fly with silent precision. The shaft struck the scout squarely in the skull, ending his agony instantly.
The night fell silent again, save for the faint hiss of the wind over the grass. The trap and the fallen scout were the only reminders that Edena’s defenders were watching — and ready.
Elvina lowered her bow, breathing steady, and whispered under her breath, “Don’t come any closer.”
Thomaz stood next to his horse, the flickering torchlight of his camp casting sharp shadows across his scarred face. He scanned the plains, eyes narrowed, yet unaware of the losses his army had already suffered. Scouts he had sent, probing Edena’s defences, had vanished into the night—some never to return.
His jaw tightened, a low growl rumbling from his chest. “Why… why do they persist?” he muttered, voice uneven, almost unhinged. “Little rats in the dirt, daring to defy me. Do they think I will wait patiently?”
Rubian sat silently beside him, watching Thomaz’s tension grow with a predator’s patience. The king’s paranoia and rage fed the air, thick and suffocating, spilling over the camp.
One of the lieutenants shuffled forward nervously, bowing his head. “My lord… the scouts—”
Thomaz’s eyes snapped toward him, blazing. “Do not speak of failure! Every man out there knows the price of defiance. Every man! And yet… yet they still crawl toward Edena as if… as if I care to wait!”
He slammed his fist against the pommel of his saddle, teeth bared in a manic snarl. “I will crush them! Every last one!”
The soldiers around him flinched, fear tightening their throats. Even the bravest men dared not meet his gaze. Rubian didn’t react, he didn’t care for crowns or cities, only the violence that Thomaz’s fury promised.
The camp hummed with nervous energy, torches flaring, soldiers shifting uneasily. Thomaz’s paranoia festered into rage, each lost scout a phantom he could feel but not see, driving him further toward madness