The fires of Dawnspire had not yet dimmed when the horns of retaliation sounded. Smoke still curled from broken rooftops, blood still ran in rivers through the gutters, but the defenders had not broken. They would not. The city still stood, and as long as it stood, so did I.
We had been struck in the heart. Serath's betrayal had cut us deeper than any blade, but it also ignited something I had not felt since the wars of the north—a fury so sharp it burned away doubt. The east thought us weakened. They thought the gate torn open, the guild divided, and the city's lifeblood drained. They were wrong.
Dawnspire was not finished.
I summoned the guild in the ashes of the courtyard. Faces streaked with soot and blood turned toward me—Kaelen with his bow still dripping red, the mages whose voices were hoarse from chanting wards, the shield-bearers whose arms trembled from the weight of holding the walls through the night. Even the wounded, limping, bandaged, stood ready. They were broken bodies, but not broken wills.
"We strike now," I said, my voice carrying across the ruined stones. "While their beasts bleed, while their dead choke their own advance. We do not wait for them to gather strength. We tear it from them."
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. Kaelen stepped forward, a grin flashing beneath the grime on his face. "About time. I was starting to think you'd keep us caged up here forever."
I ignored the jest, though the edge of his voice steadied me more than any vow could. He understood—this was no defense. This was vengeance.
By twilight, our plan was set. Under the cover of smoke still rising from the city, strike teams slipped through hidden sally ports built into the walls. Kaelen led the first, his arrows ready to silence scouts before they could sound alarms. The mages followed with cloaks of shadow to bend sight and sound. And I, at the heart of it all, led the main force—steel and fire ready to carve into the eastern command.
The night was thick, muffling even the clash of distant siege engines. We moved swift and silent through the trees, shadows within shadows, until the glow of enemy campfires lit the horizon. They sprawled across the valley like a sea of embers—rows of tents, siege towers half-built, beasts chained and gnashing their teeth. Drums echoed faintly, slower now, a heartbeat fatigued.
I raised my fist, signaling the guild to halt. My eyes found the heart of their camp, where a larger fire burned brighter than the rest, surrounded by banners of black and crimson. That was where their command lay. That was where we would strike.
Kaelen slid up beside me, his grin feral. "You take the middle. I'll cut their eyes out before they even see you coming."
Before I could answer, he vanished into the dark, as if the night itself had swallowed him.
I gave the signal. The guild moved.
The first strike fell like lightning. Arrows hissed through the night, striking sentries in their throats before their screams could rise. A second volley followed, igniting oil-soaked tents in sudden flame. Panic rippled through the camp as shadows erupted into fire. Men shouted, beasts roared against their chains, commanders scrambled for order.
Then we hit.
Steel clashed as we stormed through the smoke, blades cutting down disoriented soldiers. Mages unleashed storms of fire and ice, shattering supply wagons, freezing siege towers in place before setting them ablaze. The night became chaos—screams, firelight, shadows twisting in every direction.
I drove through the heart of it, my blade a storm, cutting through man and beast alike. Every strike was fueled by the image of Serath's smirk, his words dripping poison, his treachery bleeding our city. Every foe I cut down was a promise—that this betrayal would not be our end.
At the center of the camp, their commander finally revealed himself. He was no ordinary general. Cloaked in crimson, face painted with symbols of ash and blood, he wielded a staff of blackened bone that pulsed with light like a heartbeat. With every strike of his staff, the dead stirred, rising from the ground with hollow eyes to fight again.
Necromancer.
He raised his arms, and the battlefield itself shifted. Corpses I had slain moments before lurched to their feet, blades still in hand, turning their empty eyes upon me. Around him, a wall of shadows writhed, shields of bone forming to deflect our arrows.
Kaelen's voice cut through the din. "That one's mine!" His arrow streaked true, but the necromancer's staff flared, and the shaft splintered mid-air. The man only laughed, a hollow, grating sound.
I stepped forward, sword raised, voice low and hard. "Then I'll cut through the wall myself."
The duel that followed split the camp. My guild clashed with the risen dead, Kaelen weaving arrows between shadows, while I charged through the storm of bones. Each step was a battle, skeleton hands clawing at my legs, blades striking sparks against my armor. But nothing would stop me.
The necromancer met my strike with his staff, the clash ringing like steel against steel. Dark energy surged, slamming into me, threatening to tear the breath from my lungs. I roared against it, pushing forward, my blade pressing deeper, sparks and shadows colliding in a storm of light and dark.
"Your city burns," he hissed, voice like rot. "Your brother betrayed you. What strength remains to you now?"
"My strength," I growled, forcing his staff back inch by inch, "is that I have not fallen. And I never will."
With a final roar, I wrenched his staff aside and drove my sword through his chest. His eyes widened, black fire spilling from his mouth as he screamed. The staff shattered, the shadows collapsed, and the risen dead crumbled to dust.
The camp froze. Soldiers screamed in terror as their commander fell. And then the guild surged, cutting through the chaos, tearing down the remnants of their lines. The siege towers burned, the beasts were freed from their chains only to be cut down before they could be turned against us. The eastern army fractured, fleeing into the dark, their chants silenced.
When it was done, when the last of their fires guttered and only the stench of smoke and blood remained, I stood amid the ruins, my sword dripping with the necromancer's black blood. The guild gathered around me, exhausted but unbroken.
Kaelen clapped me on the shoulder, grinning despite the ash streaking his face. "Well, Grim. That was one way to send a message."
I looked across the burning camp, the wreckage of their power, and felt no triumph. Only the weight of the battle yet to come. Serath had escaped. The eastern army had not been destroyed, only wounded. And wounded beasts bite hardest.
But for tonight, Dawnspire breathed. For tonight, we had struck back.
The counterstrike had begun.