The wind lingered…dry and sharp.
Baron Edric stood an edge… overlooking Whitehold, its walls buried in shadow beneath the half-lit sky. And a silence that hadn't changed in days.
Just watching.
Below, the army stirred in controlled quiet. Movements like ripples, passed from man to man.
The camp had changed since his speech…no longer tense, but coiled. Like an arrow drawn too far, and waiting for release.
Commander Dave approached from behind, halting a few paces back.
"Troops have taken position along the north ridge and eastern treeline," he said in a low tone. "Fog's coming in from the south. We'll use it."
A pause passed between them. Then Edric asked, "How are the numbers?"
Dave replied, "About two thousand on our side. Another fifty scattered through the supply ridge and rearguard. No fresh word from the southern pass."
Edric's eyes narrowed faintly. "No more runners from the outer watch?"
"Not since last night."
He didn't comment on that. The silence from the passes was confirmation enough.
Edric turned from the slope. His gaze swept across the soldiers, scattered in disciplined pockets. Some stood in rows by the siege carts; others huddled in clusters, whispering quietly. They all moved like men who had accepted they might not return.
Near one of the smaller fires, a man rolled a charm between his fingers…worn bronze, probably religious. Another man finished sealing a folded note, then tucked it under his armour. They didn't speak.
One of the younger scouts jogged up to Dave's side, out of breath.
"Ridge scouts confirm the enemy hasn't moved," he reported. "No patrols from the gates. No signs of reinforcement."
Edric said nothing. He turned his eyes once more to the city.
Still the same quietness.
It's not just that, he thought. It's expectation. The kind of silence that waits to be broken only when it chooses.
He stepped away from the slope, moving toward the central fire pit. The last of the coals were dying... red flickers buried under ash.
Captain Serah stood by a table nearby, overseeing the loadouts for the siege ladders. Her hands moved quickly, counting bolts, rechecking satchels of oil and iron stakes.
Calder stood farther off, quiet, eyes scanning over something in his hand. A folded map. He wasn't fidgeting like before. Too still this time.
Edric took a mental note and walked up beside Serah.
"Still nothing from the eastern scouts?" he asked.
She looked up and shook her head once. "It's dead past the fourth mile. Even the scouts haven't come back."
That gave him pause. "How many?"
"Three."
Edric gave a short nod, saying nothing more. He shifted his focus to the siege towers. Heavy wheels. Reinforced beams. They would groan as they climbed the slope—but the snow might help muffle it. Assuming the slope wasn't trapped.
Serah was watching him now. "When it starts, we won't have time to regroup if the line breaks."
"I know."
"You expect resistance at the first gate?"
"I expect the first gate to open too easily," Edric muttered.
She blinked, then nodded grimly. "Then I'll have the archers ready."
Edric walked alone again, weaving between the small fires and siege crews. He passed one group where a soldier was quietly reciting something under his breath. A prayer, maybe. Another was carefully braiding a leather band around his wrist, maybe a ritual of some kind.
He didn't interrupt.
This moment…these quiet seconds before the storm…were not his to take from them.
Let them believe in what they needed.
Inside Whitehold
The city's interior was darker than it should have been.
What few torches remained were placed deliberately, casting long shadows through alleyways and broken merchant stalls. Decay and cold lingered.
Kaavi knelt near a stone wall, one knee resting lightly in the snow. His breath came slow. His raven circled above, out of sight now.
Near him, three shadows stood silent…Viktor, Veyl and Joren.
They made no sound.
Across the divide, two supply wagons sat near a half-collapsed warehouse. Soldiers…or something wearing soldier armour stood beside them. Too still. Too deliberate. Like they were waiting without purpose.
Kaavi watched.
His voice was barely a whisper, laced with breath and memory. "They don't twitch. They don't check their gear. They don't talk."
Joren responded, equally quiet. "They're dressed like soldiers."
"But don't act like them," Kaavi murmured.
Viktor shifted closer. "You think they're puppets?"
Kaavi didn't answer right away. He watched the figures a moment longer, then said, "Not sure. But we'll know soon."
He raised one hand, fingers curling as if threading unseen lines into the air.
"Team Two," he said, not aloud, but through the mind's tether. A thought sent across distance—sharp, firm, impossible to ignore.
"Baron has arrived. Expect signal. Both targets must fall. Be ready."
Far across the city, in a buried lane near the old theatre ruins, Gavril exhaled sharply.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, rubbing his temple.
Beside him, Liran were already checking blades. Corren was crouched low, counting breaths.
Gavril nodded. "We're up soon."
Back above, Kaavi rose slowly to a crouch.
The wind shifted again.
From the far slope beyond Whitehold, a low groan rolled through the cold...
Wood wheels. Siege carts. The beginning.
Joren leaned forward. "Do we move on his signal?"
Kaavi didn't blink. "We move on the distraction. Not before."
Tannic, bow in hand, adjusted his aim slightly. "They'll notice if we miss."
Kaavi's eyes stayed locked on the unmoving figures.
"Then don't miss."