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A proud white stallion wore heavy black-gold armor, its iron hooves pounding slow and heavy on Delaia’s heart.

The guards were fully armed, shedding every burden like winter-bare trees. Only their eyes showed, narrow as mask slits.

Each held a black-iron heavy shield, white as bone all around. On the face bloomed the Eastern Nation’s rose.

The craft was fine, the design near three-dimensional, like petals lifting from stone. A rose shedding its mortal shell, breaking rock to bloom.

Set on the ground, the shield demanded attention like a moon fallen to earth. That pure white face declared their will like a banner.

Their snow-white armor stabbed at the night like knives of ice.

Delaia lifted his gaze to a sky of churned wind and cloud. It stayed bleak and crushing, a lid on a boiling pot.

Clouds mutating in the dark warned of a vast storm rolling in like a black sea.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

A thousand meters out, beneath the wall, Erig gripped the reins like a rider carved from ice. He wore white war armor, bright as frost.

On his chest, the Eastern crest showed a rose split by a greatsword. Six petals scattered, the color brighter, like fresh blood.

He paced before ten thousand troops, a white pheasant plume a shaft of light. His tiger eyes were cold and ruthless.

Under dim lamps, he looked like a god stepping down—terrible as thunder wrapped in flesh.

Delaia saw their flags and badges, and his hatred climbed like a tide. They were traitors; His Majesty upheld justice, casting them beyond the border like stones thrown over a river.

They repaid not with thanks, but with fiends trampling their former kin like boots on graves. They even tossed aside faith and smeared our crest like ash on a shrine.

“They’re no longer our people. No mercy. They don’t deserve it,” Delaia said, firm as iron.

Helms dipped; metal croaked like crows. They already saw these “comrades” as mortal enemies, deep as the sea.

Anyone who does this isn’t worthy of being called human, lower than beasts in the dark.

“Delaia—my lovely junior, have you finally come around?” Erig’s voice slid like smoke. He kept pacing at the front, the thousand-meter stretch a line splitting the world.

“Oh? Should I call you ‘sir’?” Delaia’s tone was a blade wrapped in cloth. “Tell me, Lord Erig, what’s the point of treating Sia City’s people like this?

“Armies fight; civilians must not bleed.” His breath steadied like a tight bowstring. “If you have a shred of honor, hand us the outer citizens.”

...

[Inside Lachesis’s Outer Gate]

“Captain! Did they spot us, like wolves scenting us?”

“Why stand so far, outside bow range, like a stag beyond spear reach?”

“The Wind-Cleaving Arrow tops out at eight hundred meters,” the captain muttered, breath white as frost. “Normal arrows do three hundred. I can’t grasp why they’re this wary.”

Medith waved a hand. “Easy. They’re just on guard—bristling like hedgehogs. As expected.” Her voice was stone under silk.

“One thousand meters is the Blackblood War Chariot’s decay range, like heat fading with distance. It’s the safe distance, a moat of air.”

“He’s wary—damn him.” Her words cracked like ice. “He’s tougher than I thought. Even with a huge edge, he stays cautious…”

Medith’s heavy helm swallowed her small head; a low curse slipped out like smoke under steel.

Milia’s eyes, bright beyond the visor, held dread like frost. “The Commander’s right. Erig’s strong and razor-keen, a hawk with iron talons.

“He’s cautious, neither arrogant nor rash—walking a blade’s edge. Even with a sure win, he keeps the bow drawn. He’s no fool.

“Such an enemy is truly terrifying, like a storm with eyes.”

“But we’ll beat him tonight, right?” Phiby’s voice chimed like silver bells. She looked timid and shy most days, a fragile fawn.

But the women knew she was steady on the field, stone under rain. She watched our gate smashed, our kin slaughtered, and stayed calm like ice over a river.

Sais admitted she couldn’t do that, not with blood roaring in her ears.

“Yes. We’ll win, as long as step one lands—like the first pawn on the board,” Medith said, voice a warm blade. “Don’t forget what stands behind us, a mountain at our back.”

Her confident murmur had spice, pepper on steel. Spirits snapped back, gathering for the strike like bows bending.

...

[Beneath Lachesis]

“Honor? Lord Draela, which eye saw me abuse captives?” Erig’s smile was painted porcelain. “Look at your people.

“They’ve got weapons, order, and faith. See how bright they smile—like masks in a parade.” He pointed east, at the packed crowd, tight as grain in a silo.

“My lord! Save us—” A voice cracked like dry reeds.

“My lord! Don’t listen!” another cried. “They’re stripping our souls. We’ll never bow!”

“My lord! Ma—”

Hiss—hiss—hiss— Spears whipped through like snakes, and many city folk fell like wheat under a scythe.

“No! You damned demons!” Delaia’s nails sank into flesh like thorns, unnoticed.

Erig glanced back. Manto, Sinis, and Powell watched from the top of the wall, eyes like knives on a slate sky.

...

[On the East Wall]

“Merrquis Powell, in your view, what trick are they playing?” Manto’s gaze cut from the corner like a hawk’s beak.

Powell’s face didn’t change; it was a quiet stone. “Lord Manto, Lachesis has no traps or hidden paths, no defenses.

“Even Medith and Delaia can’t turn it. With a gap in power and intel, no one escapes your palm.”

“Morale inside is low. They know nothing about our deployments, arms, numbers, gear, traits. The city lacks supplies.

“By dawn tomorrow, you’ll take Delaia’s head, the king’s right wing, and lay it before Ogathas the Tenth. His expression will be priceless, like a painted mask cracking.”

Sinis laughed, a bell with rust. “Hahaha. Vicious, Marquis Powell. He’s still your king.” He slapped Powell’s shoulder like a friendly hammer.

“How did they get atop the wall?” Manto asked.

Powell shook his head. “No idea. Likely with special hook-locks, slow climbing. Lachesis has no gate, which shows a will to surrender.”

Manto folded his hands, watching Powell from the corner of his eye like a cat at a mouse-hole. “No extra supplies inside?”

“None,” Powell said, firm as an anvil.

“I see a basement on the map. What’s that?” Manto’s tone cooled, a blade in water.

Powell had expected it. “A shrine for the memorials of Sia City’s nobles. Not much meaning.”

“Oh? Then why underground? And so hidden?”

“Since Ogathas the Tenth took the throne, the fashion spread. He claims it keeps Sia City eternal, better than scattering ashes at sea.”

“I see. I understand.” Manto nodded, satisfied as a sated hawk. “His foresight isn’t great either. As it stands, only gods could save them.”

“Even gods can’t slip your hand,” Powell said, like a prayer turned dagger.

Manto let it pass and looked to the horizon, an archer sizing the wind.

...

[Beneath Lachesis]

“Oh, look, look. Such a shame.” Erig’s voice curdled like milk. “I’ll discipline my men later.

“I’ve always taught them not to kill innocents. Hands slipped a bit. See? Not that many died.

“I’m no demon; killing isn’t my joy.” He spread his hands, feigning helplessness like an actor in a cheap play.

“Damn you…” Delaia’s eyes burned red like coals. He forced his rage down like a flood behind a dam.

Kasda and the guards shook with it, armor booming like a drum. Kasda nearly jumped off the wall like a wolf loosed.

Erig turned to Skaro and three Mountain Bandit chiefs; a thought kindled like a spark. “Right, Lord Draela!

“My soldiers ring this place and eat through food and coin. With nothing to do, why not invite the city’s maidens to dance a round?

“That shouldn’t break the prisoner-of-war code, right?”

“Bastard…” Kasda tipped over the edge. Dance was a lie; the girls would face unspeakable cruelty, lambs to jackals.

Skaro let out a damp, mocking chuckle, savoring the thought like rot in the rain.

In that instant, Delaia went cold, frost on steel. He had sketched the shape of Erig’s nature like charcoal on a wall.