Chapter 22
The morning smelled wrong.
Rowan noticed it the moment he stepped onto the eastern wall.
Smoke always had a bite to it—burned wood, scorched oil, singed leather—but this was heavier. Bitter. Metallic. The kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat and stayed there, long after the fire died.
Below him, the fields outside Eastrun were no longer fields.
They were churned earth and shattered banners. Broken shields lay half-buried in mud, some bearing the Silver Ember crest, others marks Rowan didn't recognize but would remember anyway. Soldiers moved in lines that bent, staggered, and re-formed again, like a body refusing to fall apart through sheer stubbornness.
Rowan rested both hands on the stone and breathed.
We're still standing.
That mattered.
"Report," he said calmly.
A runner skidded to a halt beside him, saluting so sharply Rowan worried the man might pull something. "Sir! Southern flank stabilized but stretched thin. North barricade lost and reclaimed twice. Casualties... manageable."
Manageable. That word again. War loved that word.
Rowan nodded. "Good work. Get water. You're shaking."
The runner blinked, surprised, then nodded and hurried off.
Behind Rowan, armor clanked.
Dorian Lionsreach appeared, helmet under his arm, hair flattened on one side and standing straight up on the other. He looked like a man who had been awake too long and survived purely out of spite.
"Well," Dorian said, peering over the wall, "on the bright side, this is significantly less on fire than I expected."
Rowan snorted. "Give it time."
Dorian leaned on the stone beside him. "The men are holding. Barely. Morale's... fragile."
Rowan didn't ask how fragile. He already knew.
A horn sounded—low and long. Not a charge. Not a retreat.
A warning.
Rowan straightened. "They're moving again."
Below, the enemy lines shifted—not rushing, not screaming. Advancing with the patience of something that knew it would win eventually if it simply didn't make mistakes.
Rowan hated that kind of enemy.
"Shield bearers, forward!" he shouted, voice carrying over the din. "Archers, staggered volleys—do not break formation!"
He vaulted from the wall, landing in the street below with practiced ease. The ground jarred his knees more than it used to, but he ignored it, already moving.
The first clash came fast.
Rowan drove into the enemy line like a wedge, his presence alone enough to stiffen spines behind him. Monsters fell. Weapons shattered. A massive beast lunged—Rowan caught it mid-air and slammed it into the cobblestones hard enough to crater stone.
The crowd roared.
For a moment, everything felt familiar.
Too familiar.
"Rowan!" Dorian's voice cut through the noise. "Left flank—!"
Rowan turned just in time to see it.
A shield wall—enemy steel locked together, advancing not toward him, but around him. Pushing into the side streets. Cutting off supply lines. Ignoring the hero at their center entirely.
Rowan swore under his breath.
He leapt, landing atop the advancing shields, hammering down with crushing force. Shields buckled. Men staggered. The wall slowed—
—but did not break.
From behind the formation, something watched.
Tall. Broad. Encased in dark armor etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat carved into metal.
Malthros, Breaker of Shields.
He did not raise a weapon.
He did not advance.
He simply observed.
Rowan felt the weight of that gaze like a measuring scale settling into place.
They locked eyes.
Malthros inclined his head.
Not a bow.
An acknowledgment.
Then he lifted one hand—and the shield wall shifted again, adapting, compensating for Rowan's blows like a living thing learning in real time.
Rowan gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
"Fall back!" someone screamed nearby.
Rowan spun just in time to see a group of guild adventurers overwhelmed as another enemy unit surged from a side alley.
He reacted on instinct.
Too fast.
Too alone.
He charged, tearing through the attackers, dragging wounded men clear with brute strength and will. He felt a blade scrape along his side—nothing serious—but the delay cost him.
When he turned back—
The shield wall had advanced.
Not far.
Just enough.
A defensive tower on the flank crumpled under coordinated strikes. The sound of stone collapsing was drowned out by shouting.
Rowan stood still for half a second longer than he should have.
That was the cost.
"Rowan!" Dorian shouted again, closer now, sword raised. "You can't be everywhere!"
"I know," Rowan said sharply—and hated how true it felt.
A horn blast cut through the chaos. A different one.
Retreat.
Not a rout. A controlled pullback.
Rowan backed away step by step, covering the movement, breaking off when ordered rather than when he wanted to.
Malthros did not pursue.
He simply watched the line withdraw.
As the soldiers regrouped behind reinforced barricades, Rowan leaned against his hammer, breathing harder than he liked.
Dorian appeared at his side, blood smeared across his cheek—not his own, Rowan noted with relief.
"Well," Dorian said, forcing a grin, "if this keeps up, we're going to have to start charging admission."
Rowan huffed weakly.
A runner approached, handing Rowan a small folded note.
Rowan recognized the handwriting immediately.
If you come back with fewer limbs than you left with, I will be furious.
—Lila
Rowan closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he straightened.
"Alright," he said quietly, gaze lifting toward the enemy lines beyond the smoke. "I see you."
Dorian followed his gaze. "See what?"
Rowan's jaw set—not in anger, but understanding.
"I've been trying to stop him," Rowan said.
"I need to figure out how to undo him."
The horns sounded again.
The war was not over.
But neither was Rowan Valebright.
Night did not fall all at once.
It crept.
Fires burned lower, smoke thickened, and the sounds of battle shifted from constant thunder to sharp, isolated clashes—skirmishes that flared and died like sparks in the dark. Eastrun held, but only because everyone inside it refused to let go.
Rowan moved through the inner defenses, checking lines, speaking where needed, listening where it mattered more.
He did not charge again.
That was the first change.
"Rotate shields," he ordered at one barricade. "Your left side is weaker—switch positions before it becomes obvious."
The captain stared at him, then nodded sharply. "Yes, Guild Master."
Rowan kept moving.
Everywhere he went, he saw the same thing: exhaustion tempered by trust. People weren't looking at him like a miracle anymore. They were looking at him like a commander.
And that mattered more.
At the western choke point, a squad of adventurers argued loudly over whose fault it was that a crate of alchemical bombs had gone off early.
"It was your foot!"
"My foot does not explode crates!"
"Well it did today!"
Dorian stood between them, hands raised. "Gentlemen, gentlemen—blame is important, but have we considered the crate itself was cursed?"
Rowan paused. "Was it?"
Dorian blinked. "No. But it could have been."
Rowan sighed. "Dorian."
"Yes?"
"Please stop improvising explanations. You're bad at it."
"I'll have you know I'm excellent at improvising," Dorian said. "It's the explaining that trips me up."
Despite himself, Rowan felt a corner of his tension loosen.
They continued together.
Reports came in waves—controlled losses, successful withdrawals, enemy probing attacks that tested defenses and pulled back once resistance stiffened.
Malthros never committed.
That was the problem.
Rowan climbed the remains of a watchtower just outside the inner ring, using it as an impromptu vantage point. From here, he could see the enemy formations clearly.
They were... elegant.
Not in the way knights spoke of elegance, but in structure. Shield units advanced in overlapping arcs. Support troops filled gaps with unnerving precision. Every movement covered another.
And always—always—there was space left behind the main advance.
Room to absorb impact.
"Like a fortress that walks," Rowan murmured.
Dorian joined him, squinting. "I was going to say 'annoyingly competent,' but sure."
Rowan didn't smile this time.
"Malthros is baiting me," Rowan said. "He wants me to hit the center. Wants me to overcommit."
Dorian frowned. "You always do."
Rowan nodded once. "I always used to."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by distant steel.
Then Dorian said quietly, "You're not weaker, you know."
Rowan looked at him.
"You're just not alone anymore," Dorian continued. "That's not decay. That's... delegation."
Rowan exhaled slowly. "He knows that. That's why he hasn't struck."
As if summoned by the words, the enemy lines shifted again.
Not forward.
Sideways.
A coordinated push toward the river gate—one of Eastrun's least glamorous defenses and therefore one of its most dangerous weaknesses.
Rowan's eyes sharpened. "He's testing the joints."
Dorian grinned tightly. "Well, let's disappoint him."
They moved fast.
The river gate battle was ugly. Close quarters. Mud and blood and broken stone. Rowan didn't leap into the center this time. He directed traffic, sealed breaches, used himself as reinforcement rather than solution.
It worked.
Barely.
When the enemy finally pulled back, the river still ran red—but it ran.
Rowan leaned against the gatepost afterward, rolling his shoulder carefully when he thought no one was watching.
Dorian absolutely watched.
"You're favoring it," he said.
Rowan didn't deny it. "It'll hold."
"That wasn't my concern," Dorian said. "Your pride will, too, but it doesn't mean it should."
Rowan snorted. "Since when did you become wise?"
"Since I almost died twice today," Dorian replied cheerfully. "Near-death is very educational."
They were joined by a messenger, breathless. "Guild Master! Message from the city."
Rowan took the sealed note, recognizing the handwriting before he opened it.
Lila.
They're saying the walls held because you trusted people.
I knew you would.
Come back.
Rowan closed his eyes briefly, then folded the note and tucked it safely inside his armor.
That was when the horn sounded again.
Not theirs.
The enemy's.
Low. Measured.
Final.
Rowan looked up.
Across the field, Malthros stepped forward for the first time.
Not charging.
Claiming ground.
The shield wall parted, opening a corridor that led directly toward the battered outer defenses. The movement was slow, deliberate—an announcement rather than an attack.
Malthros raised his hammer and drove it once into the earth.
The ground shook.
Stone cracked.
The outer barricade collapsed inward, not from force—but from pressure.
Rowan felt it then.
Not fear.
Not exhaustion.
Understanding.
"He's not trying to break us tonight," Rowan said.
Dorian's grin faded. "Then what is he doing?"
Rowan met Malthros's gaze across the distance.
"He's mapping us," Rowan said. "Learning where we bend without snapping."
Malthros lowered his weapon.
The enemy forces began to withdraw—not routed, not chased. Ordered. Controlled.
A warning.
When the field finally fell quiet, Rowan stood very still.
The war had paused.
Not ended.
Rowan turned to Dorian, voice steady.
"Tomorrow," Rowan said, "he expects me to fight him."
Dorian nodded. "And you're not going to."
Rowan allowed himself a small, grim smile.
"No," he said. "Tomorrow, I dismantle him."
Far beyond the walls, Malthros looked back once.
Not at the city.
At Rowan.
And this time, his head did not incline.