Smoke rolled across the walls of Dawnspire like a living thing, choking the air and blackening the sky until the sun itself was only a pale, trembling disc above the battlefield. The siege had not relented; each hour brought fresh waves of horrors clawing at the gates, fresh boulders slamming into the towers, fresh cries of pain carried on the wind. My sword-arm was slick with blood, both theirs and ours, but I dared not falter. If I faltered, Dawnspire would fall.
The eastern horde pressed on, their chanting growing louder, darker, as if with every defender slain their voices drew strength. And yet, even as the enemy's strength grew, something far worse coiled inside the city itself. Whispers slithered through the ranks, reaching me on the battlements—rumors of sabotage, of gates unbarred from within, of torches mysteriously doused just when the walls needed light most.
I dismissed none of it. Sabotage meant betrayal, and betrayal meant a dagger waiting for our backs.
By the seventh hour of the siege, it came.
The western gate shuddered not from an external blow but from the iron bolts being drawn back. The sound cut through the din of battle like a scream. Men shouted in confusion, racing down to seal it, but the gates burst open with sudden force, and the enemy poured in not with ladders or siege towers but through the very heart of the city.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. Flames licked the banners. Children screamed as the first wave of masked soldiers swarmed the streets, cutting down civilians with no hesitation. The defenders who should have been guarding the gate lay dead, their throats slit, their bodies arranged in a twisted circle smeared with blood—the mark of ritual sacrifice.
Kaelen appeared at my side, his face twisted in fury, an arrow already nocked. "Someone opened it, Grim. Someone inside."
I needed no reminder. The truth was plain. There was a traitor among us.
We fought our way through the chaos, blades cutting through the flood of enemies, trying to drive them back from the courtyard. But as my sword clashed with theirs, I felt it—eyes watching me from somewhere higher, colder, filled not with the blind hunger of the thralls but with calculation.
A horn split the air, not from the eastern army but from within the walls themselves. I turned. There, standing atop the balcony of the guildhall, robed in crimson, face half-hidden by a mask of obsidian, was a figure I knew too well.
It was not some nameless saboteur.
It was Serath.
Once my ally. Once my brother-in-arms when Dawnspire was nothing more than a scattering of tents and desperate survivors. He who had sworn the same oaths I had sworn, who had feasted at my table and laughed by my fire.
And now he stood above me with a blade drawn, leading the enemy through the very veins of the city.
My chest turned to stone. For a moment, the battlefield dimmed, the clash of steel fading beneath the thunder of betrayal pounding in my ears.
Serath raised his arm. At his signal, half a dozen defenders—our defenders—turned their blades not on the enemy but on their comrades. Guards who had stood watch beside us for months suddenly drove spears into their brothers' backs, cut down women who had carried water to the walls. The courtyard erupted in crimson.
"By the gods…" Kaelen breathed, loosing an arrow that struck one of the traitors clean through the skull. "They've been here all along."
I did not answer. My voice had deserted me. My rage had not.
I cut a path through the thralls, every strike fueled by the memory of Serath's oaths, his promises, his lies. Blood sprayed across my armor, my vision narrowed to a tunnel, and when at last I burst free of the melee, I was already climbing the stairs toward the balcony.
Serath watched me approach, calm as stone despite the carnage he had unleashed. When I reached the top, he removed his mask, and there was the face I remembered, the face that had once fought beside me in the snows of Frostpeak, that had sworn vengeance against the northern tyrants.
"You should not look so surprised, old friend," he said, his voice like oil on water. "You knew it was only a matter of time."
I raised my blade, its edge dripping. "Why? Why this treachery?"
"Because you built Dawnspire on a lie," Serath said. His eyes blazed with conviction, twisted though it was. "You promised freedom, but what you built was just another cage. You chained us with laws, with duty, with loyalty to you. And in the east, I found truth. I found strength that does not lie. I found a god who does not ask—he commands. And when his command is fulfilled, this world will burn, and from the ash we will rise pure."
His words were madness, yet they carried the venom of belief. I saw it in his eyes—he truly believed this was salvation.
"You damn yourself and all of Dawnspire to slavery," I growled.
"No," Serath said softly, almost tenderly. "I set them free."
And with that, he struck.
Steel clashed with steel, our blades sparking as they met. Serath fought with the same ferocity I remembered from the northern wars, but sharper now, honed by fanaticism. Every strike was fueled not just by skill but by conviction, and conviction made him dangerous.
Our duel raged across the balcony while below us the city burned. Kaelen's voice shouted through the chaos, calling for reinforcements, but I heard nothing but the clash of our blades and the thunder of my own heart.
Serath pressed hard, his strikes forcing me back, his blade grazing my arm, my shoulder, my cheek. Blood streaked my face, hot and wet. Still I fought, each counter fueled by fury, each strike a question I could not stop asking: why? why? why?
At last, I drove him back, our blades locking, our faces inches apart. "I will cut the lies from your tongue," I snarled.
He smiled, and it was not the smile of the friend I had once known. It was the smile of a zealot.
"Then you will have to kill me, brother," he whispered. "And when you do, remember—you will kill the only man who truly understood you."
His words were a dagger sharper than his blade. For a heartbeat, my grip faltered. That was all he needed. With a savage twist, he broke our lock, slammed his knee into my chest, and hurled me backward. I crashed into the stone, gasping, my sword skittering across the floor.
Serath stood over me, his blade raised high. "The east rises," he declared, his voice ringing out across the courtyard for all to hear. "Dawnspire will fall, and its blood will baptize the new world!"
But before his strike could fall, an arrow hissed through the air. It pierced his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Kaelen stood below, bow still drawn, his face hard.
"Sorry to interrupt your reunion," he called, "but I've had enough of speeches."
Serath staggered, but he did not fall. He laughed, low and bitter, clutching the wound as he backed toward the shadows of the guildhall. "This is not the end, Grimblade," he hissed. "It is the beginning."
And then he was gone, vanishing into the smoke and fire.
I pulled myself to my feet, chest heaving, blood dripping from my wounds. Around me, the courtyard still burned, the enemy still pressed, but all I could see was the space where Serath had stood—the man who had once been my brother, now my enemy.
The traitor had shown his face.
And Dawnspire would never be the same again.