The second day was born over the ruins of the Bronze Wall.
The reddened sun crawled between the broken towers, staining the rubble and the dried blood on the stones with copper light.
The wind carried the scent of iron, soot, and burnt flesh — remnants of the day before.
Among the ruins, the army rested in silence; some slept upon shields, others pretended to.
The fires had died before dawn, and the cold felt more alive than the men.
No one spoke of the previous day — a silence that was a pact.
But all felt something had changed — they could sense it in their eyes, in their brief commands, in the way Éreon stood motionless, staring at the wall.
He watched with hardened eyes, as if seeing beyond the fog and ashes.
Éon approached slowly, katana in hand, and before he could speak, Éreon broke the silence.
"Today, the enemy falls."
His words were firm, low — the distant sound of a drum that announces war.
And then, for an instant, even the wind seemed to retreat — as if the entire world awaited the sound of the first horn.
As the sun touched the walls, Éreon and his men saw the birth of the second day.
Inside, the air still smelled of iron and fear.
The main courtyard was full — men, women, and youths held improvised spears, hollow-eyed, shoulders bowed.
At the top of the steps, Viscount Ardentis watched the crowd.
His voice cut the air, cold as a blade:
"The enemy does not distinguish noble from peasant.
If we expect the Awakened to fight for all of us...
We will die before sunset.
Each one here will serve today — for your house, for the wall... and for my name."
A heavy silence spread.
Then came the murmurs — fear, restrained revolt, resignation.
Amid the ranks, a boy tugged at his father's tunic.
The man, with calloused hands and tired eyes, knelt before him.
"Dad… do you really have to go?" the boy's voice trembled.
"Aren't there enough soldiers? What about the Awakened?"
The father gripped his son's shoulders, firm, unable to meet his gaze.
"Riven, take care of your mother and your brother while I'm gone.
They need you more than they need me."
"But… you promised you'd stay."
The man swallowed pain and fear.
"I'll return when the sun touches the wall again.
And if I don't… tell your mother to fight for us."
The horn sounded.
The boy watched his father leave — one among hundreds of silhouettes, all carrying the weight of fate.
While in the castle's corridors, Viscountess Lysandra walked beside Sèsinmè.
The morning light filtered through the windows — cold and silent.
"Lady Sèsinmè," said Lysandra, contained, "I was told you were seen walking alone after the war council.
At that hour, the camp was already asleep."
Sèsinmè kept her gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the walls.
"I needed air, my lady.After all — who sleeps before seeing the price of their own decision?"
Lysandra looked away, a faint smile on her lips.
"And what do you see now?"
Sèsinmè breathed deeply, voice almost a whisper.
"The consequences of choices… and they fall upon those who have the least choice."
Lysandra remained silent, while the distant sound of horns grew louder.
Sèsinmè kept her eyes fixed where the sun turned the broken towers red.
"Today… it won't be the blood of the guilty that stains the earth," she murmured.
The horns cut through the silence, their cry echoing across the field.
A distant thunder made the walls tremble.
Where hope once stood, now there was only dust and silence.
Outside, Éreon's army advanced among the ruins of the Bronze Wall.
Spears gleamed beneath the mist, and the sound of their steps echoed among the shattered stones — heavy, measured, like the heartbeat of a body on the verge of battle.
Marcus approached Éreon, voice low, careful not to break the men's silence.
"You changed the formations," Marcus said. "The flanks are wider… that wasn't part of the plan."
Éreon kept his gaze fixed ahead.
The wind stirred his soot-stained cloak.
"This way, they reacted faster," Éreon answered. "And those behind held the line, absorbing the impact."
Marcus frowned, hesitant.
"It's risky. If they break the center—"
"Then we won't let them," Éreon turned his head, eyes firm, almost cold. "Today, the weight of this war will be decided in a single strike."
For a moment, Marcus wanted to reply, but the sound of horns tore through the air.
The lines halted.
Ahead, the enemy emerged through the dust — red banners bearing the sigil of a stag, deep drums, the echo of a thousand footsteps in unison.
Éreon faced them.
The morning light burned in his violet eyes.
"Éon."
The Brother nodded.
Barely had the horns fallen silent before Éon advanced — a single wave crashing toward the enemy ranks.
The ruins trembled once more.
Steel clashed, the sound of spears and katana ripping the air — and the earth of the Bronze Wall drank blood again.
His cloak flew in the wind. The morning mist followed — alive and dense, shifting with every step.
The first enemies barely saw him coming.
A single strike.
The air split in silence.
Three bodies fell before the blood touched the ground.
He was a living shadow — steps closing the distance in silence, strikes slicing through air and vanishing before the sound could echo.
In his eyes, no rage — only the sharpened calm of one who learned to kill in the instant between life and death.
A soldier screamed, thrusting his spear.
The answer came before the sound: a trace of steel cutting through wind, and the scream died halfway.
The mist devoured everything around.
When the wind rose again, only bodies remained — and the distant echo of steel fading into silence.
From afar, Marcus watched.
"He's alone among them…" he murmured.
Éreon kept his gaze steady.
"No," he answered, voice cold. "They are the ones alone."
Éreon raised his hand, voice firm.
"Archers!"
At his command, the ranks moved with precision.
Ahead, the riders lifted their shields, forming a wall.
"Ready."
The sound of drawn strings filled the air.
The archers hesitated, seeing Éon surrounded by enemies.
Marcus looked to Éreon, as if expecting another order.
"He's still there…" he muttered.
Éreon's gaze did not waver, the wind stirring his cloak.
"He knows what he's doing.
Fire."
The arrows rose, covering the sky.
And then they fell — like black rain, swallowing the field in a chorus of screams, steel, and smoke.
The screams tore through the air before the arrows even struck the ground.
Amid the crash of impacts and the dry sound of metal through flesh, Éon still moved — swift, precise, nearly impossible to follow.
Each step forward was a strike.
Each strike — a body fallen.
The enemy tried to surround him, but he moved coldly, deflecting, cutting, ending — without waste, without hesitation.
The screams of pain merged with the cries of fear.
There was no time for panic or retreat — every thrust, every cut from Éon shattered what little order remained.
In mere moments, no man was left standing; broken spears and shields, bodies scattered, silence taking the place of chaos.
Éreon's army advanced once more.
When they reached Éon, he stood still among the bodies — gaze fixed ahead, breath steady, blade still dripping.
Éreon stopped before him.
"The rest is yours," Éreon said, with the certainty of one who knows his brother — and what he is capable of.
Then he moved on, and the army passed by Éon, leaving him behind — a solitary sentinel among the dead.
The army marched through fallen columns and ruins.
The streets narrowed.
Marcus raised his fist.
"Defensive formation!"
Shields locked together, forming a circle.
The riders turned, shields high, closing the flanks.
Spearmen took position behind them, tips lowered.
In seconds, a living fortress rose — a ring of iron and flesh.It breathed as a single body under the weight of war.
The sound of shields touching echoed through the ruins, muffled by the dust rising once again.
Éreon's eyes gleamed violet — filaments spread across his forearms and fingers, and the air vibrated with a magnetic hum, distorted, as if space itself were fracturing around him.
A thick mist seeped from the cracks in the walls and ruined alleys, crawling between shattered stones until it swallowed the entire field.
From the top of the silver walls, the sentinels watched in awe — the enemy, once advancing in formation, vanished in the blink of an eye within that dense fog.
One of the knights beside the commander turned, hesitant.
"Sir… this wasn't in the lord's plan."
The commander kept his eyes fixed on the veiled horizon.
"We won't change formation.Give the signal."
The messenger raised the flag, and the sound of the horn echoed through the city.
Below, in front of the walls, men, women, and youths raised their makeshift spears.
They prayed, called out to the gods, whispered the names of sons, husbands, and wives.
When the horn sounded again, they advanced — stepping into the gray veil that covered the land.
The mist swallowed them, along with their cries and the distant clash of blades.
The fog thickened with every step.
The air filled with the mixed scent of iron and blood.
Some tried to hold formation, others simply followed the shadow ahead, stumbling over bodies that no longer moved.
"I can't see anything!" a young man shouted.
Voices tangled — orders, screams, prayers.
"Keep moving! Remember why you're here — for our families, for our children!" another voice replied.
In Éreon's lines, the soldiers tightened their shields.
The sound of footsteps grew closer — too fast.
And then — the shadows appeared.
Civilians.
Common faces, filthy, desperate.
The soldiers' and civilians' eyes met for a fleeting instant — a silent shock that froze time.
"They're… civilians!" one of the spearmen cried, voice trembling. "They're coming straight at us!"
Men, women, and youths charged toward the iron wall, driven by fear and resolve.
Marcus raised his arm to order the counter, but there was no time.
The first impact came dull — a body slamming into a shield, the hollow crack of bones and flesh breaking… and then the world tore open.
A white light burst.
The body exploded.
The sound of tearing flesh reverberated as thick smoke spread, carrying the bitter stench of burnt meat.
Fragments flew.
The soldiers screamed, staggering back in panic.
"They're… exploding!" someone cried, voice breaking under horror.
"Hold formation!" Marcus roared, his voice cutting through the storming wind.
The air quaked. The shockwave rattled the line, but the ring of shields held.
"The gods… have abandoned us…" a woman murmured, body hitting the wall — another explosion.
Flames licked the steel as the waves of pressure pushed the men backward — yet none yielded.
Bodies kept colliding, kept detonating.
And still, the shield ring stood — a living wall holding back the overwhelming tide that sought to devour all.