The forest did not sleep. Even after the giant fell and the masked priests vanished into shadow, the trees groaned as if they had witnessed the clash and hungered for more. Grimblade led his hunters back to Dawnspire under a sky where no stars shone, and though their blades were wet with victory, none of them spoke of triumph. They carried silence with them, heavy as steel, because they all knew—this was only the beginning.
By dawn, word of the raid and the chained giant spread through the guildhall. Men argued in the corridors, some demanding immediate retaliation, others whispering that the east was cursed and should be abandoned altogether. Grimblade walked among them without comment, his expression a mask of iron. He had no time for fear; he needed only resolve.
But resolve was tested faster than he imagined.
Two nights later, the alarm horns blared from the eastern watchtower. By the time Grimblade reached the walls, he saw fire blooming on the horizon. Not one flame, but many, like a string of torches stretching through the trees. An army was moving.
Kaelen appeared at his side, his bow already strung, his grin feral despite the tension. "Looks like they've decided to knock on the front door."
Grimblade's eyes narrowed. "No. They want us to believe that."
The torches advanced, slow and steady, their light growing brighter as the drums began—a rhythm like a heartbeat, deep and ancient, making the stones beneath their feet tremble.
The guild assembled on the ramparts. Mages readied spells, archers drew arrows, steel whispered as swords were unsheathed. Yet Grimblade did not give the order to fire. He waited, silent, watching.
When the torches drew close enough, the truth revealed itself. The light carried no soldiers. Only wooden poles, each topped with a skull aflame. The wind carried the stench of burning bone.
The men recoiled, muttering curses. The drums did not stop.
"Decoys," Kaelen muttered.
"No," Grimblade said softly. His hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. "A distraction."
The realization came too late. Screams erupted from the western side of the city. Shadows poured over the wall—not soldiers climbing ladders, but things crawling like spiders, their limbs bending wrong, their faces hidden behind bone masks. They leapt into the streets, tearing into guards before alarms could even spread.
"West wall!" Grimblade roared, voice cutting through panic. "All units—move!"
The guild scattered, some racing toward the western gates, others holding the east in case of a second feint. Grimblade vaulted from the rampart, landing hard in the courtyard below, and sprinted toward the clash. His cloak billowed behind him, a banner of war, as he drew his blade.
The west quarter was chaos. Masked raiders slashed at citizens, fire spilling from clay urns hurled against houses. Children cried, women dragged the wounded into cellars, dogs barked until their throats were cut. The enemy did not march like soldiers; they hunted like predators.
Kaelen's arrows hissed past Grimblade's shoulder, pinning two raiders against a wall. Another lunged from the smoke, its dagger dripping violet light, but Grimblade's sword cut it in half before it landed the strike. The two halves writhed on the ground, still clawing, until Kaelen burned them with a fire-tipped arrow.
"They're not just men," Kaelen said grimly, loosing another shot.
"They bleed enough to die," Grimblade answered, swinging his blade to sever the arm of another. "That's all that matters."
The fight raged through the alleys. Every time Grimblade struck one down, another seemed to crawl from the shadows. The raiders moved with inhuman agility, twisting up walls, skittering across rooftops, striking from above. Yet for every scream of a fallen guildsman, Grimblade made sure there were three deaths painted in bone and blood.
At the western gate, the defenders faltered. Dozens of masked foes pushed in, carrying with them long poles strung with chains. They swung them wide, pulling guards off the wall, dragging them into the mob below.
Grimblade charged straight into the thick of it. His sword blazed silver under the torchlight, cutting through chain and flesh alike. The enemy shrieked, their masks cracking as their blood spattered across the stones.
Then, with a roar, the gates shook. Something massive struck from the outside, once, twice, until the wood began to splinter. The enemy pressed harder, their shrieks turning into chants.
Kaelen appeared at Grimblade's side, blood streaking his cheek. "Whatever's out there, it's bigger than your last pet giant."
"Then we break it the same way," Grimblade growled. "Head first."
The gates finally gave way, exploding inward with a crash of splinters. Through the wreckage stepped not a beast, but a siege engine—an iron ram shaped like a serpent, its scales glowing faintly with runes. Pushing it were men, but their eyes were black pits, their skin cracked as if burned from within.
Grimblade's hunters unleashed arrows and bolts, but the possessed men did not fall, even as shafts pierced their flesh. They kept pushing, their mouths open in silent screams.
"Mages!" Grimblade barked. "Burn it down!"
Spells lit the night. Fire streaked across the sky, ice shards rained upon the enemy, bolts of lightning cracked against the ram. For a moment, it seemed enough—until the runes across the serpent glowed brighter, absorbing the magic. The fire vanished into its scales. The ice melted before it touched. The lightning curled harmlessly away.
"They're learning," Kaelen muttered in disbelief.
"Then we teach harder," Grimblade said, and surged forward.
He leapt onto the ram itself, his boots clanging against its iron hide. His blade struck hard, sparks flying as steel met enchanted metal. He struck again, and again, carving lines into the serpent's face. The runes flared, searing his arms with heat, but he did not stop.
Beneath him, the black-eyed men shrieked and clawed at his legs. Grimblade kicked them away, driving his sword into the serpent's jaw. The runes sputtered, flickered, then burst in a shower of sparks. The engine shuddered, its frame collapsing as its magic drained.
The ram fell apart beneath him, spilling its dead handlers across the ground. The raiders shrieked and scattered, their assault broken. For a moment, Dawnspire held.
But the moment shattered with a scream—not from the enemy, but from the guild. Grimblade turned to see a captain of the guard fall, a dagger driven into his back. The man behind him—one of Dawnspire's own—pulled the blade free, his face blank, his eyes black pits like the possessed men outside.
Betrayal.
The soldiers hesitated, staring in horror as one of their own turned his blade against them. Then another screamed and slashed at a comrade. And another. Black veins crawled up their necks as they fell to corruption, their loyalty dissolving into madness.
Kaelen swore viciously. "They've gotten inside. Not just the gates—inside us."
Grimblade's stomach hardened like stone. He cut down a possessed soldier before he could strike a healer. The man's dying gasp carried no words, only a hollow laugh.
This was no mere raid. It was a test, a sickness seeded within Dawnspire's own ranks.
"Purge them," Grimblade ordered, his voice cold and final. "No hesitation."
The guild obeyed. Friend or not, once the black veins spread, they were cut down. Blood ran slick across the stones, mingling friend and foe until no one could tell the difference.
And above it all, the drums still beat, echoing from the eastern woods. Slow. Steady. Patient.
When dawn finally broke, the fires were still burning. The west gate lay in ruins, corpses littered the streets, and the air stank of blood and ash. Survivors wept among the dead. Grimblade stood among them, his blade blackened, his armor scorched, but his eyes still sharp as iron.
Kaelen came to him, limping, his bow cracked but still in hand. "That wasn't an army, Grim. That was a taste. A whisper of what's coming."
Grimblade looked east, to the horizon veiled in mist. "Then we sharpen our blades. Because next time, they won't whisper. They'll roar."
And as the sun rose, its light red through the smoke, Dawnspire's defenders realized the truth. The eastern skirmishes were not battles. They were offerings. And war was only beginning.