Four days remaining.
The Sanctum's main hall throbbed with preparation—steel against steel, voices lifted in callouts, and the unmistakable tension of waiting war. Fires burned low in braziers set in the corners, casting long shadows over racks of weapons, armor, and enchanted gear.
Among the fighters, Marcel Jekz stood still.
His right hand—gloved for days—twitched faintly. Beneath the leather, a shard embedded in his palm pulsed with warmth, as if it too had sensed the approaching threat. A rhythm had begun, slow but deliberate, syncing with the anticipation in the room.
"You feel that?" he asked Veyla, who leaned against the wall beside him.
She raised an eyebrow. "The fear?"
He shook his head. "The change."
The shard flared—briefly—but no one else noticed.
---
Across the hall, Tarin sparred with an A-rank shieldbearer named Thorne Grel. Their training was brutal but measured. Lira tuned her wind sigils while Emberjaw, now allowed indoors under "wartime flexibility," napped lazily near the alchemy table, steam rising from its nostrils.
Overseeing it all, General Varek stood unmoving. "This city," he began, "is not a tomb. It is a blade. And every one of you is part of its edge."
As he spoke, a runner burst into the chamber, scroll in hand. Varek took it, read, and turned back toward the gathering fighters.
"Scout update: the Rift beasts are on the move. Three columns. One headed directly for Mireholt. The other two—flanking. Designed to distract or trap."
A hush fell.
"ETA: four days," he continued. "The lead force carries a Broodhorn commander—capable of spell mimicry. The flanks are led by Shardhounds. And possibly… a Bleakflame Wyvern."
Murmurs rose. Even the elite stilled at the mention of that name.
Then Marcel's shard flared again—stronger this time. It burned under his skin like a warning—or a call.
---
In the War Chamber, terrain maps were unfurled across the stone table. Mireholt, surrounded by cliffs to the north and forests to the south, was a natural stronghold—if it could hold.
"We control the canal bridges," Commander Halrix declared. "They become kill zones. Flame drops above. Reinforcement corridors below."
"And the southern Tanglewood quarter," added a hunter captain. "One beast at a time through there. Perfect for disruption teams."
Lira studied the maps. "What if they bypass everything with Rift tunneling?"
"We collapse the catacombs," said Varek. "They'll bleed for every step."
---
That evening, under the open sky, fighters gathered. Not to celebrate—but to reflect. Some prayed. Others simply cleaned their blades.
Marcel sat apart, ungloving his hand.
The shard shimmered, no longer faint—alive, responsive. It pulsed not with fear, but with eagerness. Like it wanted the battle.
Veyla approached. "Your hand," she said, nodding.
"It's reacting," Marcel admitted. "Like it's awake now."
She knelt beside him, examining it. "Maybe it knows something we don't."
"Just like always" he said, closing his fist.
---
Elsewhere, a young recruit named Rell sat cross-legged with the Jekz siblings. "My parents tried to send me south. Said I'd die here."
Tarin offered him a bandage. "You might."
Rell smiled grimly. "Still better than watching from a safe place."
Lira clasped his shoulder. "You'll bleed next to us, then."
---
Atop Mireholt's spire, Elder Vess stared east, toward the Rift's red glow. A hawk descended, dropping a scroll sealed in gold.
He read it.
Then burned it without a word.
The Imperial Capital would not interfere. Not yet. Not unless Mireholt fell.
And that left them alone.
But not unready.
...
The horns echoed across Mireholt like a heartbeat made of steel.
From every district, every tower, every guild hall, the call went out: the march had begun.
Warriors streamed toward the staging grounds—some cloaked in mage-stitched flightgear boarding skycarriages tethered to windspirits, others climbing onto armored beasts that rumbled like thunder as they lumbered toward the open plains. A few departed by sea, riding sleek skiffs blessed with wind-wards, their banners snapping in the salt air.
Children pressed to the windows, wide-eyed. Some had never seen a warbeast or skycarriage before. Even Marcel, Tarin, and Lira—seasoned now by tournament and blood—paused subtly as a titan-backed siegebeast rumbled past. They didn't speak, but the awe was there in the quiet way they watched.
Above it all, the list of chosen warriors was published. Scrolls enchanted to float in the air appeared over public plazas. Names shimmered in gold:
The Vanguard of Mireholt
— Marcel Jekz
— Tarin Jekz
— Lira Jekz
— Veyla Ardent & Emberjaw
— Rakan Ironspine
— Commander Selyra Vael, A-Rank
— Duelmaster Krohn, former Grand Arena Champion
— The Stormchain Twins
— Huntmistress Jena of the Deep Tunnels
— Captain Roen Malvek, Sea Division Lead
— High Pyromancer Ellan Vest
— General Caelis Blackmane (B-Rank)
— Captain Velka Renn, the Spear of the Storm (A-Rank)
— Hunter Jael Krinn (A-Rank, Archer)
— General Varek
— Commander Halrix
Crowds gathered to read them aloud, some cheering wildly at familiar names, others whispering in awe or fear. Children pointed at the floating names, chanting them like spells. Market vendors closed early, not out of greed but reverence.
"Marcel's going?" a girl asked, clinging to her mother's sleeve.
"Of course he is," the mother whispered. "They all are."
"Even Veyla?" a boy said. "Then we'll win for sure!"
More voices joined. The presence of legendary figures like General Blackmane—rarely seen outside the war room—sparked disbelief. Captain Velka's armor gleamed with channeling sigils, and even stoic merchants paused to bow. For the first time in years, the legends had stepped into daylight.
At the city gates, parents clashed with young hunters. Some begged their children to stay—ranked or not, they couldn't bear the risk. Others, voices hoarse with grief before the war had even begun, watched silently as their sons and daughters vanished into columns of steel and magic.
"I'm not staying behind," said a C-Rank boy, his mother sobbing into his sleeve. "If I run from this, I'll never stand for anything again."
Mireholt's patrols marched double-time now, helmets gleaming beneath banners of silver and green. Their presence was no longer just for order—it was reassurance, a show of strength. Even children walked differently, holding their heads higher beneath the watchful eyes of their defenders.
The city gates groaned with added barricades, manned day and night by rotating shifts. Access was restricted. Imports dwindled. Caravans were either rerouted or delayed indefinitely. Export permits were revoked altogether—no one was allowed to take essential goods out. Not now.
In the command sanctum, Elder Vess stood before a war map etched in luminescent crystal. Next to him, Commander Vael drew arcs across the landscape.
"They'll reach us in three days," she said. "Assuming their scouts haven't already breached our outer wards."
"They haven't," Thorne said. "The shard is still calm."
Across the room, Marcel flexed his palm. The embedded shard pulsed once—warm, deliberate. Watching.
"We'll meet them in the Burnscar Gully," Vael continued. "Open terrain, near the old quarry. Perfect for our fliers and Emberjaw's fire zone. Our sea division will secure the rear flank, and the cliffside batteries will hold long-range."
"What of the enemy's composition?" Lira asked.
"Three columns," Commander Halrix replied. "Two winged flanks. One central push."
Commander Vael nodded grimly. "We've confirmed several high-tier enemy commanders."
— The Hollow Rider
— Breakmaw: obsidian-skinned, six-legged, towers above trees
— Broodhorn Commander: capable of mimicry
— A Bleak Flame Wyvern: capable of aerial spell suppression
Tarin muttered, "So. They're not sending fodder."
"No," Vess said, voice low. "They're sending an army."
Still, no one stepped back.
The warriors of Mireholt stood beneath flickering war-lamps, fitting armor, tightening belts, sharpening blades. The fear was there—but so was the fire. They weren't just a force. They were the spine of the city now.
Some paused in the plaza, speaking directly to the gathered citizens.
"We're not marching to die," Krohn growled. "We're marching to win."
"I swear we'll return," Veyla said, Emberjaw roaring beside her.
Marcel simply raised a fist. "For Mireholt."
The roar that followed could be heard across the valley.
__________________________________________
Author's Note
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