"You stand here. Get someone behind you to pass you arrows, like a river feeding a wheel. Keep the shots rolling."

"Each of you, hold one man every other slot. The five empty slots, we'll fill after nightfall, under disguise." Medith's commands cracked like fresh-split bamboo.

Under Medith, the soldiers moved like a well-oiled loom. In less than an hour, the web was ready.

"Three hundred Wind-Cleaving Arrows, and a hundred... what are these?" Medith pointed at a bundle of white shafts, pale as bone.

"Milady, those are Piercing Army Arrows," the guard captain said, voice low as a drumbeat. "They focus penetration on a single point."

"They hit three times harder than Wind-Cleaving Arrows," he continued, words falling like iron peas. "Useless on armor, though."

"Their initial speed is a lightning bolt. On impact they lose edge like a blade cooling in water. In that blink, they punch through ten unarmored men."

"They can kill through armor too," he added, breath frosty. "But armor bleeds away that first surge. Against people, they're a reaper's scythe."

In an hour, Medith had shown command like a mountain sunrise. Her voice, clear as sky bells, struck their hearts and blew fear away like mist.

"Good. We'll use these arrows." A cloud of worry crossed her brow. "How many in total, counting the commons?"

"Two hundred Wind-Cleaving left. Two hundred Piercing Army left. Over three thousand common arrows," the guard captain reported, sweat beading like dew.

"Luckily our garrison is elite. Everyone wears Capital Grade Armor. Our arms can still bite," he said, swallowing hard, like a pebble down a well.

"But most stores sit in the wall armory. Three Blackblood War Chariots inside. Thousands of Wind-Cleaving, over a thousand Piercing Army, countless bows."

"There are repeating crossbows and arbalests..." He trailed off, words fraying like rope in salt wind.

Medith nodded, gaze steady as a lighthouse. Empty cheer is a paper lantern in rain; without hard prep, it collapses into sticky silk.

"Any warhorses in the city?" she asked, testing the water like a toe to a stream. He nodded. "Yes, about a hundred. We're an infantry regiment."

"Aren't you the Dike Guard? I thought you were cavalry," Medith said with a half-smile, a spring breeze over glassy water.

"People think so," the captain scratched his head, sheepish as a boy. "We're infantry. The real cavalry is the Erene Guard."

"Cavalry stationed at the Royal Capital?" Medith frowned, a gull tilting in shifting wind. With Captain Hibo’s strength, why hole up behind stone?

"It wasn't Captain Hibo's wish," the captain said, voice grave as an old tree. "Forty years ago, war broke like a storm."

"In the final battle, Captain Hibo walked through ten thousand like fire through dry reeds. He took the enemy's head and slew Erene's former commander."

"He shattered the Royal Capital's defense. The war ended like thunder rolling away. After that, His Majesty ordered him to guard the palace."

"One step away was forbidden," he said, palms tight as bark. "He’s kept that vow, faithful as the North Star, to this day."

Medith weighed that, a pebble rippling a pond. "That seat comes with nails," she murmured, half sigh and half smile.

"Report, my lord!" A guard jogged in, spear clacking like hail. "Lord Draela sent word. We found two Blackblood War Chariots and over twenty Bonecrusher Arrows."

"What? Take me there!" Joy flared in Medith’s eyes, like tinder catching a spark.

"Easy!" Delaia guided the soldiers, careful as surgeons. Two battered chariots rolled out, ballistae rusted over, cobwebs hanging like winter lace.

They were in a basement, stone sweating like a cave. Medith unfurled the map in her mind and matched it, surprised by the hidden roots.

"Pity," Kasda sighed, a bell with a crack. "If only they were pristine. These look like early failures, from before fixed axles were mastered."

"One shot, then the chassis fell apart like a rotted hull. Huge cost, thin return. Once the new generation came, these were mothballed."

Medith didn't mind the grime. Her jade-pale hand brushed the giant ballista, dust rising like ash snow. "Can it still fire?"

"Give me a day," an engineer said, eyes glinting like flint. "It should. As long as it shoots, it's fine. One-and-done anyway."

Delaia rubbed his eyes, weariness like sand. "Good. Shame about those Bonecrusher Arrows. If only we had a carrier," he said, staring at the iron forest.

They lay on the ground, silent as fallen meteors, gathering dust. The sight left his heart hollow as a dried gourd.

"Carrier..." Medith tried to heft one, veins like taut cords. The city's anti-magic, plus the arrow's own, froze her will like ice.

"Then we can't count on them," she said, clapping dust from her palms, powder puffing like smoke. "Call it two heavy ballista shots."

A chorus of sighs drifted up, thin as smoke. "Just two shots... what's the use?"

"Used right, they're a dagger to the enemy's heart," Medith said, eyes like stars in deep water. A plan was forming, tight as a knot.

It would be the iron shield against that first wave of death, a reef against the tsunami.

11.13, 10:50 p.m., about twenty-five hours before Lachesis unspooled like a frayed thread.

"Everyone, ready?" Medith drew on her last gauntlet, steel whispering like rain, and looked over the group, a shepherd before a storm.

Four girls coiled their hair like dark serpents, hugged their helms, and breathed deep, as if drawing spring into their lungs. "Ready!"

"Standing by at all times!" The City Guard stood firm, like pines in winter. The deeper the crisis, the harder their will set.

"Good! Remember this," Medith said, voice ringing like bronze. "Tonight we don't march to die. We go to vent our fury like a monsoon."

"Raise your bows!" she called, a bell to rally cranes. "Lift your shields! Show these damned invaders how fierce Eunomia’s soldiers are."

"Tell the citizens behind us their guardian gods are rock-steady, worthy of trust like bedrock. Long live His Majesty Ogathas! Long live Eunomia!"

"Ooooh—" The answer rolled like surf. "Long live His Majesty!" "Praise Eunomia’s gentle wind!" Voices flared like torches in a night market.

Blood heated, bodies hummed like plucked strings. Bows and shields quivered, eager as hounds at the leash.

A smile tugged at Delaia’s mouth, dawn at the edge of cloud. Medith’s gift was a sun; with her, faith and courage didn't crumble.

She burned away their darkness with a blaze, a hearth for a wintered town.

"Then I declare this," Medith cried, sword raised like a lightning rod. "Operation Dawn—begin!"

A roar answered, thunder echoing in a stone valley.

"May the god of Eunomia shield us," someone prayed, voice a candle in wind.

"Lord Draela! Hit back at those devils!" a man shouted, fist high as a banner.

"Long live Lord Draela!" "Delaia! Delaia!" The cries rose like flocks taking wing.

"City Guard, sirs! May His Majesty walk with you!" "Long live the guardian gods!" The street shook like a drumhead.

Tonight, the ash-gray hearts of the people caught fire. What they did now would dye their tomorrow, like ink on silk.

"Do you hear them?" Delaia asked, voice trembling like a drawn bow. Palace flattery was soap bubbles next to this tide.

"Yes!" the soldiers roared, fighting spirit boiling like a kettle. Strength surged through them, a river breaking ice.

"This operation allows only success, not failure!" Delaia barked, words like hammer blows. "Operation Dawn—now!"

He yanked the lever. The platform leaped, and they shot skyward like arrows fleeing the string.

Cries tore the air as they vaulted onto the wall, climbing to the crest like storm waves.

"Look! It's Delaia! And Kasda!" From afar, voices crackled like brushfire.

"They can't hold it! They're coming to surrender!" "Quick, inform Manto and Commander Erig!"

"Ahhh—we've won!" Segireneto and the mountain bandits howled, cocks crowing before dawn. No one thought tricks were left.

They took it for talks, for a bend of the knee.

Soon, Erig armed up, metal chiming like rain. He mounted and stared into the distance at men both familiar and strange.

They couldn't see faces, but the killing air scraped skin like cold iron. Even the onlookers shivered.

Tonight would be sleepless for both camps, a vigil by a black sea. If Segireneto succeeded, they'd step closer to their own star.

For Delaia and Medith, there was only one road, a tightrope over a canyon. Behind them stood over a hundred thousand innocents.

Behind them too lay the seaway to the Royal Capital, a throat any fleet must pass.

This siege looked unwinnable, a mountain wall under a moonless sky. Could Medith catch that pinprick of life-light?

Would they die far from home, fall in chains, or lift their blades and sing, writing an epic in blood and dawn?