81 lines
No EOL
3.4 KiB
Markdown
81 lines
No EOL
3.4 KiB
Markdown
The wind clawed across the high wall, dragging loose mortar and snowflakes over the battlements. From here, Telaryn could see the enemy's approach in full: three banners posted like blades against the earth, a disciplined column making its slow, patient descent into the foothills below.
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No horns. No torches. Just the quiet dread of an empire at work.
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Telaryn stood at the edge of the wall, her knuckles pale where they gripped the stone. Her armor bore the stain of old ash and newer blood. She hadn't bothered to clean it.
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Behind her, boots scraped frost. Commander Vessan joined her, arms folded tight beneath her patched cloak, jaw set like flint.
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"You see them," Telaryn said.
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"I do."
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“Three banners. Well-fed. Disciplined. They’ll be here in two days.”
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“If the roads hold,” Vessan muttered. “Maybe less.”
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Telaryn’s silence drew long.
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At last, she said, “We won’t hold.”
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“You don’t know that.”
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“Yes. I do.”
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Vessan turned sharply, facing her. “So you’ll run?”
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Telaryn didn’t flinch. “I’ll seek something that can change the outcome.”
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“Don’t wrap it in prophecy, girl,” Vessan snapped. “You flee now, you shatter what little spine these people have left.”
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“I won’t flee,” Telaryn said. “I’ll return. With something more than firewood and courage.”
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Vessan’s face creased—not in anger, but weariness. “You took an oath. Here. In this keep. You raised the banner again. Made them believe.”
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“I made them hope,” Telaryn replied, eyes still on the horizon. “And I won’t let that hope die beneath stones and starving children. I can’t die here, Commander. Not yet.”
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Vessan stepped beside her, both women looking down into the vale. Below, the outer walls had begun to stir—civilians gathering kindling, soldiers moving among barrels of brackish oil and salvaged weapons. A child wore a helm far too large for her head, trailing a wooden sword like a relic of play.
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“They’ll see you leave,” Vessan said, quiet now.
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“I’ll make sure they understand.”
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“They won’t.”
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“Then I’ll give them something else to hold onto.” Telaryn’s voice was steel now. “I’ll bring them a reason to survive the siege.”
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Vessan closed her eyes for a long moment. Then: “You’ll be called a coward.”
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“I’ve been called worse.”
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“And if you fail?”
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“Then I’ll fail trying to give them more than a grave to kneel beside.”
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The silence between them thickened, stirred only by wind and the distant creak of banners far down the slope.
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Vessan finally let out a breath, gravel and grief in it. “You’re breaking your oath.”
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“I’m not breaking it,” Telaryn said. “I’m bending it to the shape of the storm.”
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That earned a short, bitter laugh. “Spoken like royalty.”
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Spoken like survival, Telaryn thought. But she said nothing.
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Vessan stepped back, slow. “Then go. Take who you must. But don’t die in some cursed ruin thinking it’ll save us.”
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“I won’t,” Telaryn said.
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“And if you find that thing—whatever it is—don’t forget who you were before it.”
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Telaryn looked at her for the first time, eyes sharp in the cold.
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“I won’t forget you held the walls when no one else could.”
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Vessan gave her a nod. Not warm. Not forgiving. But real.
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Telaryn descended the stairs alone, her breath misting before her, each step echoing like a drumbeat.
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She would not fall with Winter’s Edge.
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She would return with fire in her hands. |