By dawn, Vale House was awake.
The courtyard had turned into a forge of noise—hammering, scraping, shouting over the hiss of boiled leather. Old tables became workbenches. Spears leaned against barrels. Nobody said the word war, but every movement carried its echo.
Elma walked among them, sleeves rolled, hair tied back. The shard in her chest stayed quiet for once, a warm coal instead of a storm. She listened to arguments over nails, rations, and whether Jer's goat counted as livestock or family.
Calista crossed the yard with Nitron's old ledger under her arm, his name slashed clean through the cover. "We have food for eight days if we ration, twelve if we lie," she said. "Four of the city's riders camped by the river. Too close for curiosity."
Elma wiped her hands on her trousers. "They want us to feel them breathing."
"They want to see if we still know how," Calista said.
The shard stirred faintly—Strike first. Elma ignored it.
Inside, they gathered a small council on the back steps: guards, servants, the two old women who ran the kitchen like a temple. Calista spoke plain. "No panic. No wasting strength. The city will move slow—they like watching their prey think."
One of the guards asked, "What about allies?"
"Send messages to Hale Street and the mills," Calista said. "Promise trade, not taxes. People follow fairness faster than flags."
Elma nodded. "And send rope for the mill wheel. Give before we ask."
That earned her a few surprised looks—no one expected generosity from a house that once collected debts in blood.
When the meeting broke, Elma and Calista walked the wall. The mortar flaked under their fingers; the wind tasted of iron. "We can't turn this into another prison," Elma said.
"Then we build something worth defending," Calista replied.
They passed a boy carrying a basket of arrowheads too big for him. He saluted awkwardly. Elma almost smiled.
By noon, plans littered the yard like fallen leaves. Rope for the bridge. Laundry lines along the ridge to fake numbers. Campfires scattered to make scouts count wrong. None of it certain, all of it better than waiting.
When the heat broke, they found a moment alone in the storeroom—a breath of stillness between drills. Elma leaned on a shelf; Calista stood close enough that their knees touched.
"How bad?" Elma asked.
Calista's eyes didn't soften. "Bad. But not hopeless."
"The iron envoy will be back with more than ten."
"Yes."
"And the smiling one will bring knives instead of words."
"Probably."
Elma exhaled. "Then we make our own rules before they make them for us."
Calista moved closer. "Say them."
"No tribute. No secret courts. No disappearances."
Calista's voice dropped. "And if I forget who I'm fighting for?"
"I'll remind you," Elma said. "You'll do the same for me."
Calista smiled, slow and dangerous. "Deal."
The kiss that followed wasn't escape—it was punctuation. A promise made skin-to-skin that they'd face the storm as one.
Evening brought stew, maps, and exhaustion. They spread parchment on the dining table, weighting the corners with candlesticks.
"Bluff the north road," a guard suggested. "Laundry lines—make them think we've doubled numbers."
"Good," Calista said. "Keep their eyes guessing."
Elma pointed to the river bend. "If they send scouts, let them come that far. We'll meet them with light, not blades."
The plan was simple: fire on the ridge—twelve small flames that said we see you.
When darkness fell, Elma stood on the wall with a lantern in her hand. The shard thrummed quietly under her ribs.
Calista joined her, breath a pale cloud. "You're sure?"
"No," Elma said. "But I won't spend blood before I must."
"Then you've learned something," Calista murmured.
Below, riders appeared on the south road—scouts in dull armor, slow and deliberate. Elma lifted the lantern once.
The ridge answered: twelve sparks flaring into life.
The scouts halted. One shaded his eyes toward the wall, then turned his horse. No retreat, just calculation. They rode back into the dark without a word.
The watch exhaled as one.
Calista touched Elma's shoulder. "Tomorrow they'll try again."
"I know."
"And the day after."
"I know."
"Then we keep the ridge lit."
Elma looked at her, at the faint glow of the fires reflecting in Calista's eyes, and nodded. "Until the drums start."
When they finally went inside, Vale House felt different—still broken, but breathing. In their chamber, Calista kicked the ledger under the chair, as if even paper deserved rest.
Elma unlaced her boots and sank onto the bed. The shard's warmth spread through her like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Tomorrow," Calista echoed.
Outside, the ridge lights faded one by one, careful hands cupping flame. The road stayed quiet. The house held.
For now.