Forty minutes. That's how long it lasted. Forty minutes of steel and screams, of men shouting names and boots churned into red mud. Now Orshek's square thrummed with another sound — the sound of survival. Men cheered, women cried and laughed in the same breath, children climbed barrels and stared at bodies like they were watching storms. Our first real battle had ended.
I stood in the middle of it, boots tacky with drying blood. On Earth I'd been a commuter, a man of fluorescent lights and lukewarm coffee. The worst I'd seen before this was a bruise in an office fight. Here I had held a shield while a man died against it. The coppery smell clung to my hair. My hands trembled once, as if remembering a quieter life, then I locked them. People needed a backbone more than my pity.
"Positions," I barked. "Guard the gates. Tend the wounded. Drag every bandit to the dungeon — tomorrow they'll answer for this." The crowd moved, obedient and raw.
Elias and Natalia stood close, faces carved in the hard lines of soldiers. Gerreth limped up, shoulder bound and proud. "Take rest. Heal your wound," I told him. He nodded and walked toward the infirmary. Something tight closed in me watching him go.
At the edge of the square Lyra Quinn watched the militia stacking bows and crossbows. Her merchant's gaze catalogued polished limbs and taut strings; she said nothing. She's seen what our weapons can do, I thought. That is enough.
I climbed the council steps. "They thought Orshek was weak," I told them. "They thought we were a carcass to pick at. Tonight we showed teeth."
The cheer that rose was ragged and fierce. I let it wash over me, then steadied them. "This is only the beginning. Someone feeds those who would prey on us with coin and steel. We will find that hand, and we will hold it to light."
Their roar carried fear like a banner. Good. Fear keeps people steady.
The dungeon smelled of damp stone and old breath. Bandits were chained in lines; faces dirt‑grey in torchlight. One torch spit and guttered.
"Names. Sponsors. Everything," I said, and the stone swallowed my voice.
Elias crouched beside me. "Their gear's too good — leather, steel that's not common here."
Oswin stood the door like an oath. "Someone paid for them."
I crouched in front of a thin man with a scar. "Who supplied you?" I asked.
He spat at my boot. The old reflex to flinch tugged; I starved it. Mercy here would be a grave. "Hold him," I said.
They hauled him to the rack. Leather straps bit into skin; salt ground into open rents. His scream tore the cell open. Once upon a time that sound would have hollowed me. Now I made it my lesson. Each shriek steeled me: pain taught silence, silence taught resolve. If I could shrink at someone's wail, I'd die when steel came at me from the other side.
Another man was beaten until his voice broke; fingers were crushed beneath a hammer. The thin scarred fellow finally cracked. "A noble," he gasped. "Silk. Fur. He paid in coin that smelled of court. I don't know his name."
Pieces came out like teeth: meeting places, a courier that moved at dusk, rumors of a nobleman's displeasure with our town. I stitched those scraps into a map in my head. Each confession peeled the world back a notch.
When the boss — the man who'd cut down three of our infantry — spat at me and cursed, I had no patience for mockery. He would not live to tell new lies. I chose death for him and the hardened few who led. They were dangerous to keep.
The rest begged. Hunger and fear frayed them raw. One or two looked like they might be saved. I heard the old voice inside me reach for mercy, but I remembered the militiaman who'd bled out at my shield and the child who had watched her father die. Mercy would not raise them.
I said, "Two of you — or three, if I need them — will work for Orshek under guard. You give me the name of the noble who backed you, and you may go free. Fail — and you die on the gallows."
Dawn found the square full again. The laughter of victory was gone, replaced by a taut silence. The ringleaders were dragged out in chains. The boss raised his head and spat.
"Leonard, you pig‑spawn bastard," he snarled. "You think you're a lord? We'll burn your little town. We'll gut your witch."
"Dead man," I said. "You don't know it yet."
I gave the signal. The executioner's blade fell.
Heads hit stone with dull finality. Each thud steadied something in me—where nausea had once lurked, a colder hinge clicked. By the fourth and fifth blow my hands were steady. Blood no longer made me flinch; it made decisions clearer.
When the last head dropped, the crowd murmured like the sea. I turned to the people. "Pray for the six who fell defending you," I said slowly. I read their names, handed pouches of coin and sealed scrolls to their families, and pinned iron badges on those who had served. Their grief hardened into a discipline that would carry them through winter. That mattered. Survival was more than killing; it was shaping what lived on.
Two days after the battle, Gerreth's fever worsened. His breathing was shallow, and the doctor muttered of infections and bad humors that no salve could fix. Late that night, as the wind rattled the palisade, Elias appeared at my door. His cloak was wet, face hard and unreadable.
"He's sending a rider," he said softly. "Straight to the capital. A sealed packet."
I felt my pulse spike. If that letter reached the king, everything we'd built — Orshek, our militia, our control — would be at risk. I nodded once. "Intercept him. Quietly. No mistakes."
Elias's jaw tightened. "It will be done."
The morning the news came, the courtyard fell silent. Gerreth was dead. A hero, a warrior, a man who fought for his people, a figure of loyalty.
We laid him to rest in the courtyard. I watched as the town lowered the coffin, people bending forward to touch it, whispering blessings. The sun reflected off polished weapons laid beside him — a tribute to the life he gave.
I remembered the night before the fight, the palisade creaking in rain. I had whispered to Natalia, instructing the poison, telling her to make any wound look like the chaos of battle. She obeyed my voice. And now, as the dirt fell over Gerreth's body, that secret weighed on me as much as the earth itself.
Elias approached silently, kneeling beside me as the bells tolled. He slid a folded packet into my hand. No words were spoken. I recognized the wax seal instantly. The letter was addressed to the king — every detail of our town, our militia, even mentions of Natalia and the suspicious prince's double dealings.
I tucked it beneath my cloak as the town chanted for their fallen hero. My jaw tightened. The bells tolled again. The crowd's grief, their chants, their prayers — they were a shield, a ritual of protection for Orshek. And I would ensure the shield remained strong.