September 7. The Hexclaw Legion marched to within a day’s ride of Dawnlight, dust trailing like a pale banner in the wind. Rumors about Medith swelled like storm clouds; by nightfall, everyone was sure she was inside Dawnlight.
That tied their hands like ropes in wet fog. Paris’s orders came cloaked and thin: “If not, let duty lead.”
Those were his exact words. Harrison, a noble who’d waded courts like marshes, turned the phrase like a whetstone and grasped most of its edge.
He stared at the castle rising like a mountain in mist, his mood knotting like roots. The Hexclaw Legion had iron strength, and Segireneto stood ready beside them. Even failing that, reserves flowed like a river behind. Taking this vast fortress wasn’t impossible.
Yet he felt Paris was sending a smoke signal—“I’m hard to handle”—drumbeats meant to cow a certain someone.
It could also be a blade drawn to sever ties with Medith. If she was inside, she wouldn’t let them succeed; she had the storm and the will to shut the gate.
So be it, like flint striking.
Harrison set his plan. He brought the Hexclaw Commander and no fewer than twenty elites, then spurred their mounts hard toward Dawnlight, hooves beating like war drums.
At dusk on September 8, Gerald received a flying-tip like an arrow: Duke Harrison of the Eastern Nation, with the Hexclaw Commander and elite soldiers, sought audience twenty kilometers out.
The news jolted him like cold water. Confusion and dread braided like smoke. Was the possibility they’d debated with the captains arriving so soon?
Troops hadn’t even been redeployed. Medith was about to depart. The timing pinched tight like a strangling knot, demanding caution.
He hesitated, then saw Medith and the women carefree, laughter flowing like spring water. Gerald hardened his resolve like ice.
“Commander Gerald, where are you headed?” Mercenaries at the rear gate asked, their vigilance a lock against mishap.
“I’m going to meet a few people. It’s important, tied to what we discussed at the meeting.” His words fell like stones. They hurried to open the gate, the matter touching other Commanders like sparks; none dared delay.
“Are you going alone?” a soldier asked, worry fine as a drizzle. Gerald smiled and nodded. “Relax. Old friends. But if I don’t come back, remember my word—recommend Gulo to Her Highness.”
“You should tell the High Commander yourself…” Their voices rolled like low drums.
“Do we need to notify others, or General Medith?” Her name hung like a bright banner in the air.
Gerald shook his head like a tree shedding leaves. “Don’t worry so much. Too many hands muddy the work. If asked, say I went out on business.”
“Then—”
“Alright, alright! Why’re you pups so chatty today? People are waiting, itching like ants. That’s that. Save it till I’m back!” Gerald bared a wolfish look.
Seeing that, they felt relief like shade on a hot road. Had he turned suddenly soft and honeyed, it would’ve felt wrong, like stepping into soft mud.
“Travel safe, Commander,” they called, wind at his back.
“Don’t get ambushed, Commander,” came another, shadows biting at the words.
They laughed and bantered like sparrows. Gerald cursed with a grin, his eyes hard as iron. He spurred his horse and vanished into the deep plain like a dart.
“Hm?” Medith’s pink ears flicked, catching urgent hoofbeats drumming like rain on stone. Iling, ears keener than any of the women, picked the rhythm from the noisy chorus too.
Years told them such hoofbeats meant either hot urgency or a heart burdened like a lead weight. “From the back gate… who rushed out with their heart ablaze?” Medith frowned, drifting toward the rear gate like a leaf on wind.
Before she reached it, several mercs who’d let someone pass ran into her. They greeted her with faces calm as stone. Medith, mind misted, asked again and again who had left.
They only said the lord had gone on business. The Commanders had met days ago; details weren’t convenient to share. Medith listened, face still as water, wearing the mask of “I understand.” In private, she quietly gathered the women like a flock to discuss the meeting.
Dusk waned, the light of hope sinking like a slow sun. Dozens of Hexclaw Legion soldiers in heavy armor stood aligned, two walls of iron on either side. In the center, a splendid noble smiled into the fading day.
Clive, the Hexclaw Commander, was wrapped head to toe and sat his horse like a statue. His light brown eyes lay flat as a still lake, hiding every ripple of thought. Slowly, a powerful warhorse entered the frame, a crest rising from the field.
It wore silver-white armor. The weight dragged its speed down, as if each lifted leg spent its last breath. Yet its hooves beat steady and sure, stamping deep prints into the earth like seals.
“You’re the lord of Dawnlight—Gerald?” Harrison measured the man. Early forties, plain as a field stone, a brush of mustache under a broad nose—nothing to mark him from the crowd.
Except his eyes, sharper than most, a winter wind that pricked the skin.
“Are you leading this ‘operation’? Bold question—why’re you riding north?” Gerald loosed the arrow straight.
Seeing that bluntness, Harrison folded away his courtesies like a fan and cut to the bone. “You’ve got spine, Lord. I hear General Medith is inside your city. This fortress is our must-pass road north.
“We’re here to ‘grandly invite’ her back to the Royal Capital of the Eastern Nation. You know it—she made an agreement with us.”
