The fog lay dense against Whitehold's walls.
Dawn's pale light seeped into the mist, casting everything in washed-out greys. Baron Edric Valhan stood on the low rise beyond the gate, flanked by five guards, heavy infantry in steel greaves and shields. Behind him, two thousand soldiers formed disciplined ranks: spearmen with braced pikes, shield-wall infantry, and archer detachments posted on the parapets.
Edric's weathered hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
Edric raised his shield high. Instantly, the lines stilled, his voice rang out:
"Men of the North! Today we face an enemy forged from steel and shadow. I know fear lives in your hearts... I see it in your eyes. But we fight not for glory, but for our home. For our children. For the women weaving your banners in Branwyke. If these people think they can break us, they know nothing of Northern courage."
A low murmur swept the ranks…half prayer, half promise.
Edric scanned the men.
"Archers... loose fire at the gate's apex. Crossbowmen…fire a single volley, then fall back to the shield wall. Shields locked, spears braced. On my call, we advance together."
He stepped forward, heavy infantry forming a protective ring around him. The skirmishers rose in unison and loosed a dozen bolts into the gloom beyond the gate. The bolts struck stone and iron echoing dully…but no response.
"Fall back!" Edric commanded. The crossbowmen slid behind the shield wall; archers on the parapets let another broadside fly upward, arrows clattering among unseen defences.
Silence.
All eyes were fixed ahead…toward Whitehold's outer gate, now visible through the thinning haze.
It was open.
No horns. No guards. No resistance.
Just a mouth in the city wall, yawning wide.
Commander Dave stepped beside him, half a pace behind. His voice was low, not out of fear, but habit. "No sign of movement. No archers. Nothing along the battlements either."
Edric said nothing at first. His eyes didn't blink. The gate looked less like an invitation and more like the entrance to a tomb.
Serah moved to the other side of him. "It's a trap," she said bluntly. "No question. They want us inside. If the gate closes behind us, we're boxed in."
"A frontal charge through that gate is suicide, Baron."
Serah hesitated. "Baron…"
He glanced toward her.
She said it plainly, "This could be the end. You know that."
He didn't answer right away.
Then, after a moment, he spoke…not with bitterness, nor fear, but with weariness he carried, too many dead memories too far.
"Someday," he said quietly, "we all die."
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
"We don't choose when. Just what we stand for when it happens. If these bastards want to close the book on us… let them find us on the right page."
Serah looked away, not arguing…but not agreeing either. Just accepting. That, too, was part of command.
From the ranks behind them, a soldier whispered a short prayer. Another checked the grip on his spear. A third quietly passed a waterskin to a comrade whose lips were trembling.
Edric heard none of it. His focus remained on the gate.
"But...".
"I'm not done," Edric said, not harshly. "We don't send everyone. A small squad, light shields, fast feet. Check the perimeter."
A murmur moved through the nearest ranks as the order was heard. Soldiers tensed…not from panic, but readiness.
Edric looked back at Serah, and his voice softened just enough to show he'd heard her concerns. "I don't plan to lose them. But I'd rather risk a few now than all later."
She gave a slow nod. "I'll choose the scouts."
He waited there, eyes narrowing.
No movement.
"Send the scouts," he said.
Serah signalled, and six runners peeled off from the flanks, breaking formation and darting forward. Each carried nothing heavier than a short blade and a signal horn.
They entered the gates without a sound.
The wind shifted. The banner above Edric's shoulder flapped once, then stilled.
Seconds passed.
A full minute.
Then two.
No horns. No screams. No return.
Dave came up from the eastern flank, breathing sharp from the jog. "Still no motion along the ridge. Fog's giving us cover, but we're flying blind."
Edric gave a small nod. "How's the line holding?"
"Steady. But nervous."
"Good. Hold them until I signal."
Dave paused, watching Edric's face. "You think it's empty?"
"No," Edric replied simply.
A moment passed between the men.
Then Edric turned slightly, scanning the buildings along the walls. "These bastards don't hide. I think they are waiting. That's different."
"Difference being?"
"Maybe they believe they don't need to hide," Edric said. "They want us to come in. And that means they've prepared for exactly what we're doing."
Dave didn't disagree.
Serah returned to his side. "Still no sign."
Edric's jaw clenched once.
"Advance!" Edric roared, shield foremost. His guard closed ranks, shields interlocked. The spear line pressed in behind, bristling blades forming a living wedge. Edric led the way…foot crunching frost into Whitehold's open maw.
First Encounter
The courtyard beyond the gate was narrow, just wide enough for two shield walls to grind past each other.
Frost-edged puddles cracked beneath boots. Edric's guards paced beside him, with heavy shields at either side. Pikes and blades angled outward.
But what halted them was not terrain.
It was what waited inside.
Dozens no, hundreds maybe thousands of figures stood silently across the plaza.
They were looked like townsfolk. But their posture wrong. Their eyes empty. In their hands were spears, rusted swords, sharpened farm tools. Makeshift armour... some had padded jerkins, others had tied pots and wooden panels to their arms.
And behind them, in clear contrast were figures clad in military gear…soldiers of Whitehold. Their uniforms stained, but intact. Their weapons well-maintained.
the eerie sight of Whitehold's citizens, standing abnormally still, clutching makeshift weapons and light armour cobbled together from scraps.
Edric's eyes narrowed. Something was off. He raised his hand, signalling the army to halt. "Be on guard," he commanded, his voice steady despite the unease creeping into his chest.
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. They had never seen anything like this before, and the sight of their own people standing in such unnatural stillness sent shivers down their spines. Edric's resolve hardened. He had seen a puppet before and knew the horrors they represented.
Serah stepped beside him. Her whisper was low, tense. "Are those… our own soldiers?"
Edric didn't answer. His eyes scanned the details … a standard still strapped to one soldier's back, a tabard torn and stained. Few of these men he might have trained. Others, perhaps, once stood in defence of this city.
Now they waited. Hollow-eyed. Empty.
Dave muttered from the left flank, "They're not attacking."
"Not yet." Edric said. His tone was quiet, but not uncertain. "Shields up. Tighten the line. Nobody steps forward until I say."
There was confusion among the ranks now. Spears lowered slightly, glances passed.
A few muttered behind him.
"They're not attacking…"
"We're just going to fight our own people?"
Edric said nothing yet.
The wind shifted, drawing the fog back just slightly.
Then it happened.
Without a sound, the figures across the courtyard shifted…all at once.
The citizens stepped forward in loose sync, their movements stiff but sudden. Their limbs cracked as if joints were being forced into place. One woman with a dislocated shoulder jerked it into its socket with a sickening pop. A child-sized figure's head rolled backward, then snapped forward again, resetting unnaturally.
Behind them, the soldier puppets raised their weapons at the exact same moment.
From chaos, to formation.
Two lines now. Citizens in front, soldiers behind.
Not a word. Not a breath.
Not a scream.
Edric's voice rose, clear and sharp: "Form up! Be ready!"
Serah hissed, "They're not right."
"I know."
One of the archers behind them whispered, "What in all the hells are we looking at?"
Edric didn't answer. He watched them. Then lifted his hand…
"Archers," he called. "One volley. Aim for centre mass. Fire."
The line of archers let loose. Dozens of arrows soared over the heads of the infantry and landed clean in the front row.
Several of the "citizens" were struck in the chest, legs, shoulders—deep wounds.
But they didn't cry out.
Didn't scream.
Didn't even flinch.
They just staggered slightly, then stepped forward again…arrow shafts still sticking from their torsos, one even dragging behind with a bolt in his spine.
The silence stayed whole.
A veteran to Edric's left murmured, "No man takes that and stays standing."
And still the line came forward…closer now.
Baron Edric's voice was cold steel. "Spears forward!"
Some hesitated.
They had never fought this before. Faces they might've known. People they might've passed in a marketplace.
But even as hesitation gripped them…the first puppet lunged.
A citizen broke formation and rushed with jarring speed, knife out. Another followed—then another.
One drove a rusted blade into the neck of a soldier in the front. The man fell choking, eyes wide. Another puppet vaulted over him with a short sword and slashed toward a shield-bearer.
"SHIELDS UP!" Serah shouted. "FORM A WALL!"
The courtyard exploded into motion.