Nov 14, 9:36 p.m.—less than three hours before Lachesis unravels. Sia City blazed like a field of lanterns; not a single corner lay dark. Hope swelled like a tide, yet death loomed like a winter gale. Saying they weren’t afraid would be a lie.
Medith called an emergency drill at dawn. She handed out bare-bones home defense—knives like cold slivers, sticks like storm-bent branches—and taught the simplest ways to survive. Manpower was a dry well. The five hundred recruits, after long debate, were scattered across the city like seeds on hard soil. Even holding the lines was a grindstone to the bone. All they could do was pray, each to their own gods.
“Do not—do not pity the enemy.” Her voice rang like iron on stone. “Pity will turn you, your family, your friends, all you cherish, into ash. If they spot you, run like deer. If you can’t, then shout—show a man’s spine.
“Slash their throats like tearing silk. Pierce their hearts like breaking ice. No knife? Use your teeth. No teeth? Use your nails. If you’ve got nothing, then burn them with your eyes. If we must die, drag their souls with us, straight to hell.” Medith’s words drummed in every ear.
In a wide hall, a round table glowed under lamplight. It groaned with mountain-and-sea delicacies—crabs red as embers, roast chicken falling off the bone, steaks begging for a hungry blade, and an avalanche of dishes you couldn’t count. Almost every household ate like this tonight. Every chef in the city had labored from dawn like ants building a dam, just to lay this feast down.
Captain after captain and the battlefield commanders were invited to dine with Medith and the others.
They shed their war-plates like snakes shedding old skin. Most were past forty, silver threading their hair, beards gone wild like brush in drought. But their eyes were bright as stars—last night’s rare, full sleep had settled their spirits, and the afternoon’s rally had stoked their fire.
“Honored to be invited by Lady Medith and Lord Draela,” Jonathan said, callused hands fumbling through a noble’s salute like an ox trying to dance.
Medith almost burst out laughing. She smothered it, but her cheeks flushed like peaches; her puffed cheeks made her look dangerously charming.
She wore a white formal dress, clear as ice, pure as fresh snow. The green gleam of her nail polish had been worn away; her pale fingers showed soft pink nails like cherry petals.
It was the first time the captains had seen her like this. On the field she was a lone rider in the dust, cutting plans like a blade, winning miles with a glance. Here, softness rippled like moonlight. Their hearts stumbled; old faces went red.
“Ahem.” Milia coughed hard. Her dress was daring, cut like lacework over shadow, and it dragged the mind toward spring. Don’t ask—think too far and it’s game over.
“Milia, trying to charm the captains? Or planning to ‘reward’ them?” Iling asked, bewildered. Iling and Phiby were far plainer—white dresses smooth as water, thin as mist, warded for defense with runes sewn like quiet rain. Beside them, Milia stunned like lightning across a night sky.
“I like wearing it. Problem?” Milia lifted her chest like a challenge.
The men nearly spat blood, their hearts kicking like startled horses.
“Hey! Aren’t you going to rein her in?” Sais scowled, as if someone had stolen her role right off the stage.
Medith shrugged, a willow bending in wind. “She likes it. I don’t own her. It’s consent both ways. Who am I to judge?”
“You!” Sais fumed. She’d toned herself down lately and got scolded for it. Milia went full blaze—and Medith didn’t say a word.
“You’re picking on me!” Sais sawed off a slab of steak like hacking an enemy, chewing hard as if biting Medith herself. Iling leaned in and whispered in her ear, words like warm tea.
Moments later, Sais giggled like a clueless girl, chewing her fork. She kept sneaking honeyed glances at Medith from the corner of her eye.
Medith let it slide. She drew in a breath. “Ahem. Gentlemen—eyes front.”
The captains flushed and scratched their heads, embarrassed. They weren’t boys; some had wives waiting at home. Staring like wolves wasn’t exactly noble.
“They say the Elf Clan are beauty itself, figures like willow in rain. Seeing you today—no lie,” said a man whose face carried more knife scars than rivers.
“Oliver, have you no shame? Your daughter’s old enough to run the streets. And you’re eyeing Milia? I’ll tell your wife,” Palmer laughed, scolding him like tossing a pebble into a pond.
“Hey, Palmer, what’s that old Eastern line—yao tiao shu… something?”
“Graceful lady, gentleman’s desire,” Medith said, smiling.
“That! Exactly!” Oliver folded his arms, proud as a rooster. “I’ve read books, you know. All the Eastern classics.”
“Sure. Gentleman, my ass. Your eyes went crooked the moment you saw the sprite girl. Your wife ought to see you losing your soul,” a burly man named Noel boomed, laughter rolling like thunder.
“Look, just admit it. I’m being honest here. Milia, your chest is really—”
“Damn it, Bel, you really don’t have a filter?” Palmer flicked him hard. Bel’s words jammed in his throat like a cork.
“Tee-hee…” Medith’s laugh rang like silver bells. Heads snapped toward her like arrows loosed. She stopped, blinked, then smiled. “What? Never seen a beauty laugh?”
“Never. Never,” Delaia waved both hands, scared like a rabbit. The room cracked into laughter. The captains suddenly felt their revered leaders were human too—only masks on the battlefield made them look like gods.
Their hearts finally loosened. Words flowed like spring wine. The jokes were crude, the talk was low, sometimes even bawdy—but Medith and the others listened with warm eyes. This was life. This was how they’d grown up—laughing through dust and rain.
A brief, bright moment made them forget the ring of steel. For a heartbeat, the siege felt far away, like storm clouds held at bay.
Medith filled her cup and raised it, pale fingers like jade. “Come. A toast to you all. But only one. If you get drunk and lose your head, I’m not covering it.”
The captains froze like deer in torchlight.
Delaia and Kasda moved first, cups raised. The women followed, offering their glasses like lanterns to the captains.
“What’s wrong? Afraid it’s poisoned?” Delaia quipped.
Powell’s poisoning of the former captains was common knowledge, the reason these men had stepped in like stones shoring a breach. Their worth wasn’t in doubt.
They hadn’t expected Medith to honor them this much.
“Commander and my lord, don’t say that. We’re just overwhelmed. Come!” Cups clinked like steel. They drank martyr’s wine.
“Everyone—live,” Medith said, eyes hard as flint.
“Yeah. We will,” they answered as one, voices like a drumline.
…
“Everyone! Ready?” Erig’s shout rolled over the ranks. The army had rallied; formations lined up like carved rows of pines, set to charge.
“Ready on your word!” the Sage Soldiers answered, voices ringing like anvils.
Sinis rode beside Erig. Behind them, black and white cavalry rippled like yin and yang. Beyond that, heavy-sword warriors and shield-men stood in clean lines like stepped terraces. Manto, rarely seen at the front, took command today. Powell had vanished like mist. In the open ground outside Lachesis, archers drew tight, bows curved like moons, arrows aimed at the sky, waiting for release.
Lachesis had jammed the city’s buildings and high towers like teeth. The Sage archers couldn’t seize the high ground outside; their range would be wasted. A small stroke of fortune for those behind the walls.
Arrows were stacked behind the lines to waist height, a dry river ready to flood. Four Blackblood War Chariots stood in a row, their massive bolts glinting with cold light like frost-bitten spears.
“Stick to the plan. Skaro’s main force breaks from the south and north. Skaro himself leads the push at the west gate. Our people will meet you there,” Erig said, calm as a winter lake. “East and west should crack first. Then we link inside and out and keep losses down.”
The Mountain Bandits heard the confidence in his tone. Fear melted like snow in sun; hunger for plunder rose like smoke.
“Brothers! Ready?” Skaro roared. The bandits answered by rote—still shaky, but at least not hollow.
“Then let’s take them head-on. Medith Waheit…” Desire lit Erig’s eyes like flame.
