The morning broke beneath a sky the color of iron. Clouds pressed low over Dawnspire, heavy and swollen, as if the heavens themselves braced for the coming storm. The city was restless; not a soul slept the night before. From the walls to the markets, silence blanketed every street, every home. People whispered only when they had to, as though their voices might draw the enemy closer.
I stood upon the eastern wall long before the horn was sounded, my hand resting on the hilt of my blade. Beneath me, rows of soldiers fidgeted with their shields, boots scraping against the stone battlements. To my left, Kaelen leaned casually against a parapet, his bow strung, a grin tugging at his lips though I knew the grin was a mask. He was waiting for me to speak, but I had no words left for reassurance. I had given them all in the days of preparation. Now only steel remained.
The mist in the valley stirred. At first it was a ripple, faint as breath across glass. Then it thickened, darkened, and moved. Out of it came shapes, dozens at first, then hundreds, then thousands. They carried no torches, no banners. They marched in silence, their armor swallowing the dawn light, their eyes like embers. And behind them, towering shadows blotted the horizon—giants of twisted flesh and bone, siege engines dragged by chains of black iron, war beasts snarling as their handlers cracked whips made of sinew.
A murmur rippled through the defenders on the wall. Some swore. Some whispered prayers. I raised my sword high so its gleam cut the fog. That silenced them. Their eyes turned to me, and for a heartbeat, Dawnspire's fear became fury.
The enemy halted just beyond bowshot. Silence hung, thicker than the mist. Then, a single horn wailed from the enemy ranks. Low. Long. It shook the very marrow of the city's bones.
And the first blow fell.
Boulders of black stone, hurled from monstrous catapults, arced through the air like falling moons. The walls shuddered as they struck, stone cracking, dust raining down. Screams erupted as splinters of rock skewered men where they stood. The siege had begun.
"Archers!" I bellowed, my voice cutting through the chaos. "Loose!"
The walls answered with thunder. A storm of arrows darkened the sky, raining down upon the first wave of soldiers below. Screams rose as bodies fell, but the enemy marched on, unfaltering, trampling their dead beneath their boots.
Kaelen loosed arrow after arrow beside me, his movements swift as lightning. "Not much for conversation, these bastards," he muttered, though sweat gleamed at his temple.
A tremor shook the ground as the war beasts advanced. Massive creatures, part ox, part nightmare, their hides armored with plates of bone, their eyes glowing red. They rammed the first of their siege towers forward, wheels churning, iron-clad ramps ready to crash against our walls.
"Oil!" I roared.
Flames burst to life along the battlements as cauldrons of burning pitch were heaved over the edge. The fire spilled onto the beasts and towers below, engulfing them in a hungry inferno. Roars of agony split the air as some beasts collapsed, writhing, their handlers screaming. But others pressed on, aflame yet unstoppable, dragging their towers closer.
Then the first of the ladders struck the wall.
Clawed hands gripped the stone, pulling bodies up one after another. Their faces were pale, their mouths sewn shut with black thread, their eyes empty but for hunger. They climbed like insects, heedless of blades and arrows that cut into them.
I cut the first one down myself, my blade splitting its skull as it lunged over the parapet. Another followed, and another. The battlements became a slaughterhouse, steel clashing, arrows hissing, fire roaring.
"Hold the walls!" I shouted, driving my sword into another invader's chest. Blood sprayed across the stone. My arms burned, but I did not stop. "Dawnspire holds!"
Kaelen fought beside me, loosing arrows at point-blank range, kicking bodies back down the ladders. "You know, Grim, you could have picked a quieter city to defend!" he shouted over the clash of steel.
A soldier screamed nearby as a clawed hand ripped his throat out. Another defender tumbled over the wall, dragged by hooks embedded in his flesh. The air was thick with the stench of burning pitch and blood.
And then the giants came.
From the fog, they emerged—creatures of twisted bone and sinew, towering twice the height of the walls, their arms as thick as tree trunks. They carried hammers of stone bound with iron, each swing shaking the earth. One crashed against the wall, stone crumbling beneath its blow. Men fell screaming as the battlement split.
"Ballistae!" I roared.
Massive bolts streaked through the air, striking the first giant in the chest. It howled, staggering, but did not fall. Another bolt pierced its skull, and with a thunderous crash, the beast collapsed into the ranks below, crushing dozens beneath its bulk.
But for every giant slain, two more advanced.
The walls groaned. The ground quaked. Dawnspire bled.
Yet the defenders fought on. Women who had never lifted a blade before hurled stones onto the heads of climbing thralls. Old men drove pitchforks into the enemy's faces. Children carried water to the wounded, their hands shaking but steady.
Every soul fought.
Hours blurred together. The sun rose higher, but its light could not pierce the smoke. The battle became endless, a tide of blood and fire. Still, we held. Still, the walls stood.
But even as I cleaved another foe, I felt it—that this was only the beginning. The enemy had tested our strength. They had shown only a fraction of their might. The true storm had yet to fall.
And when it did, I knew Dawnspire would be tested beyond steel, beyond stone, beyond blood.
The first blow had landed. The siege was far from over.