The first shot came just before dawn.
A single bolt cut through the gray air and struck the outer wall with a flat crack. Then silence—no shouting, no charge—just the quiet stretch of seconds that told everyone the waiting was over.
Elma was already on the rampart when the second bolt hit. She leaned over the parapet and saw them: half a dozen riders at the tree line, using the fog as their curtain. Scouts. Testing range, counting response.
"Archers," she said.
Three men stepped forward, bows drawn. The shard in her chest thrummed, whispering for fire, for spectacle, but she ignored it. They didn't need terror—they needed precision.
"Loose."
Three arrows sang out. One struck a rider's shoulder; another buried itself in a horse's flank. The rest vanished into mist. The scouts pulled back without a shout, the forest swallowing them whole again.
Calista appeared at her side, hair tied back, expression unreadable. "Testing the walls?"
"And our nerves," Elma said.
Calista nodded once. "They'll report what they saw. We'll use the time they waste talking."
By midday, the courtyard had become a rhythm of motion: water buckets, fresh fletching, oil for hinges. Elma checked each station herself, her sleeves rolled, dirt streaked across her cheek.
The shard pulsed faintly, a steady reminder of what waited under her skin. It spoke less now, but when it did, its voice was silk over steel. You could end this faster.
She clenched her jaw. "Not your way."
Calista found her near the well, arms crossed. "They won't wait another night."
"I know."
"The ridge lights bought us one day. The city won't give us two."
Elma wiped sweat from her neck. "Then we make the first move."
That evening, she led twenty of their best beyond the south gate. The air smelled of pine sap and rain. They moved quiet, keeping low, until the road bent toward the trees where the scouts had hidden.
Tracks marked the mud—hooves, heavy boots, and one deeper print from a wagon. Supplies.
"Take the flank," Elma whispered. "No fire until signal."
The men nodded and melted into the dark.
She crouched behind a fallen trunk, the shard pulsing under her ribs. Its warmth steadied her heartbeat, clearer than fear, sharper than thought.
They think you're prey, it murmured. Show them the lie.
When the wagon creaked into view, Elma rose.
"Now."
Flame met fog. Torches hissed as they struck the wet road, sparks blooming across canvas. The riders shouted—some turned, others charged.
Elma moved through them like instinct, blade catching flashes of torchlight. The shard hummed in rhythm, not screaming this time, but syncing—each motion too precise to be human.
When the smoke cleared, two of the scouts were down, three wounded, one kneeling in the mud, hands raised.
Calista's orders echoed in her mind: If you capture one, bring him alive.
Elma kicked the man's weapon away and dragged him upright. "Who commands you?"
He spat mud. "The city does."
"Name."
"The Warlord of Glass."
The words made her grip tighten. "Never heard of him."
"You will." His mouth twisted into something between a grin and a grimace. "He knows what you are. He said the shard would light its own pyre soon enough."
The shard flared, sharp and hot, as if recognizing the name.
Elma's eyes narrowed. "And what does he want?"
"You."
She slammed him back against the trunk hard enough to rattle the leaves. "Tell him to come get me himself."
The scout coughed blood and laughed anyway. "He already is."
They brought the prisoner back just before dawn. The courtyard was quiet again, save for the hiss of damp torches.
Calista stood waiting at the gate, cloak drawn tight. Her eyes met Elma's. "You saw him?"
"No. Just his message."
"What name?"
"Warlord of Glass."
Something flickered in Calista's face—a memory, maybe. "He ruled the inner districts once. Broke every truce Nitron ever made. If he's taken the city, it means he's not after Vale House. He's after you."
Elma's pulse thudded. "The shard."
"Yes."
They stood silent for a long moment, listening to the crows wake over the trees.
Finally Calista said, "Then we strike before he sends another envoy."
Elma looked toward the ridge, where last night's fires had burned low. "He won't send one. He'll come himself."
The shard beat once—slow, heavy, like a heart learning to speak.
He knows your name.