Luna crouches in the underbrush, watching from the shadowed edge of the forest. Her sharp eyes catch movement near Seven. Black legs, emerging from the snow, eight of them.

  Spiders. Her stomach tightens at the sight.

  Immediately, her gaze shifts to the towers of the fort, scanning their heights. Where there are spiders, Maldor cannot be far. And then... there. A hooded figure stands atop the tallest tower, watching the battlefield with unnatural stillness.

  "And there you are..." she murmurs.

  Luna slips her rod from its clasp, the silver shaft etched with runes that shimmer faintly in the morning light. Steadying her breath, she raises it, pointing the rod straight at the tower.

  But then the ground trembles. A thunderous explosion tears through the clearing near the southern wall. Even from her hidden perch, Luna flinches, the sound sharp and punishing in her ears. A great plume of fire and smoke spirals into the sky, the blast so intense it scorches the air above.

  Her head snaps toward the source.

  Seven lies crumpled in the snow, far from where he had stood, thrown like a ragdoll by the force of the Emberglass.

  From the woods, Daniel and his men break cover, rushing toward the gaping breach torn into the fortress wall.

  "Fuck!" Luna curses under her breath and jerks her gaze back to the tower-

  The hooded man is gone.

  As the last of the militia disappear into the smoke, Luna slips from the treeline in a swift dash, hood drawn low. No one turns to see her. She reaches Seven’s side.

  “Seven…” she breathes.

  He lies on his back in the snow, smoke rising from his scorched brigandine. He groans faintly, his breath shallow and ragged. The right side of his face is blistered and blackened, the leather of his brigandine seared and cracking. He hadn't taken the full brunt of the Emberglass, but even a glancing blow has left him in ruinous condition.

  His wounds… this is…

  Luna’s lip trembles slightly as she looks down at the broken man, her disfigured ally.

  He wheezes, throat raw and scorched, unable to form words. His hands shake as he scrabbles weakly at his belt, fingers fumbling at the fastenings of the leather satchel stitched to it.

  The potions!

  Recalling their discussion earlier, Luna kneels beside him and undoes the clasp with care.

  Inside, her eyes widen....

  Red vials, the liquid within nearly translucent, shimmering with a clarity she's never seen. Potions of healing, of unbelievable purity.

  He told me he had them, but to think they were of this quality…

  She selects one, noting a hairline crack along the glass, and unseals the stopper. Cradling his head, she tilts it gently to his lips and pours the contents in.

  The liquid touches his tongue and he jerks, coughing and spluttering, but forces it down, swallowing in desperate gulps.

  At first, there is nothing, no sign of the potions effect. But then, after half a minute, the change begins, sudden and startling. His scorched, blistered face starts to knit itself together, flesh smoothing as blackened skin lightens. The cracked ruin of his right hand twitches, then slowly flexes as tendons realign.

  From the burned side of his scalp, short, uneven hair sprouts—a stark contrast to the shoulder-length strands on the other side, leaving him looking lopsided and raw.

  His breathing steadies as minutes go by. The wheezing fades, replaced by pained groans as sensation returns. By the time the potion’s work is done, Seven is already pushing himself upright, face twisted in agony... but very much alive.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He winces as he touches his face, there’s a raw, angry scar carved across his right cheek and eye. He doesn’t dwell on it, forcing himself upright with a gasp, still panting from the pain. He glances at Luna and manages a hoarse, "Thank you. Thought I was finished."

  “I saw Maldor,” Luna says quickly.

  “Where?” Seven’s hand flies to his sword, yanking it from the snow with renewed fury. “I’ll gut that bastard.”

  “The tower,” Luna replies, “but he’s gone now.”

  Seven growls low in his throat. “We need to get inside.”

  Luna nods, but her eyes shift to the fort. The clash of steel and screaming voices echo across the field. Daniel’s forces are still struggling to push fully through to the fort.

  “The breach is choked,” she mutters. “Militia are bottlenecked. It'll be a while before anyone else gets through.”

  Seven curses under his breath. "If I'd just gotten the Emberglass a few steps closer..."

  He turns to Luna. "What about Edwin and Gandre? Have they broken the gate yet?"

  Luna shakes her head. "I don’t know."

  "We’d best find out."

  They move quickly, circling around the fort's flank. On the northern side, they spot the battering ram in motion, a great oak log lashed with iron bands, slamming rhythmically into the gate. Gandre is at the front, bellowing with each strike.

  "Heave! Again! Push, you bastards, like you mean to kill the door! Heave!"

  The rhythm is brutal but effective, the ram crashing forward with heavy force. Sweat steams off the men, their shoulders bruised, breath ragged. Gandre’s voice is like a war drum, keeping them moving in unison.

  Further back, Edwin stands atop a low rise, commanding his archers as they fire over the walls at the brigands stationed along the battlements. The archers crouch behind hastily constructed barriers of wood, loosing shafts in controlled volleys. The enemy is scattered, many turning their attention toward the breach where Daniel fights... but the gate still holds.

  Luna swears. "Fuck. They haven’t broken it yet."

  Seven exhales through clenched teeth. "I'll help them then."

  Seven charges forward before Luna can stop him, one arm raised to shield his face. An arrow glances off his shoulder, snapping harmlessly against his brigandine. He dives beneath the half-broken mantlet and comes up beside Gandre.

  Gandre glances at him, startled, but says nothing as Seven grabs hold of the ram. His powerful frame slots in beside the others, muscles tensing.

  "Heave!" Seven bellows in unison, and the great oak crashes into the gate with thunderous force.

  Again. And again.

  Luna’s eyes widen. With Seven's strength added, the strikes hit harder... notably harder. Each impact is deeper and more violent.

  How is he so much stronger?

  Did he learn a battle arte?

  She sees the hinges buckle. The cracked stone around them groans under the pressure, seconds from collapse. Then, with a final thunderous blow, the ram strikes true. The gate shatters inward, wood splinters, the metal braces tear free, and the remaining brigands bracing it stumble back in terror.

  Edwin raises his sword high and bellows, "Time for a slaughter!! With me men!!! FOR RAVENCROFT!!!!"

  The militia roar in response and surge forward behind him. Edwin leads the charge, sprinting ahead to join Gandre and Seven as they storm through the wrecked gate.

  Luna blends into the tide of militia, hood drawn low, shortsword clenched tight in her grip. Together, they press forward, cutting down the defenders. Arrows whistle overhead as Edwin shouts from behind.

  "Archers! Take the walls and cover the yard! You lot, clear a path!"

  On the ground, Gandre’s voice booms like a warhorn.

  "Shields front! Ranks tight! No lone fights! When I call rotate, fresh line forward, wounded back! Now move like you’ve trained or die like dogs!"

  The courtyard is a storm of noise and movement. Around eighty brigands remain, snarling and brutal, each one a seasoned killer. But Gandre’s commands bring order to the chaos. Under his guidance, the militia move in waves, each push driving the defenders back a step.

  And the tide only shifts more as Gandre and Edwin carve their way into the fight. Edwin’s greatsword hews through a man in a single brutal swing, cleaving shoulder from hip. Gandre moves with ruthless speed, his longsword striking three men down in quick succession.

  “Advance by rank! Keep the line tight!” Gandre bellows.

  Two hundred militiamen answer the call. Individually, they’re outmatched, farmers, smiths, coopers. But they follow orders and have the numbers. When one stumbles, another fills his place.

  Bit by bit, the courtyard is claimed. Blood soaks the churned mud and snow, but Ravencroft holds the line. The noise and chaos of the battlefield... quiets, slowly giving way to order. The tight line of militiamen pressing the brigands back, step by step.

  The enemy falters, retreating toward the keep, eyes flicking between one another with growing unease, unsure of how to attack. Nearly half their number lies broken on the ground.

  But then a scream cuts through the air, sharp, panicked.

  From above, bodies fall... one, two, three. Ravencroft archers. The ones Edwin had sent to seize the walls. They plummet like ragdolls, limbs twisted, skulls shattered.

  Gandre whirls, his eyes rising to the battlements.

  They’re all dead, to a man.

  And descending the steps with eerie calm is a single warrior. Tall, thin, clad in a dark brigandine, a longsword hanging loose in his hand. He moves with quiet confidence, no rush, no fear.

  Gandre’s jaw tightens.

  “Halric,” he growls.

  The man nods once in return, short, curt. Almost respectful.

  "Gandre."

  Then the doors to the keep groan open.

  Twenty more brigands emerge, heavily armored, moving in disciplined formation. One lifts a horn and sounds a sharp, piercing note. The militiamen watch in confusion, all eyes drawn to the keep.

  At their head, walks an imposing figure.

  Towering in full plate, a greatsword slung across his back, mirroring Edwin’s own. He steps forward, the elite brigands fanning out behind him.

  Edwin breaks from the line, blade resting on his shoulder.

  “Edric,” he says.

  The man in plate tilts his head.

  “Brother.”