A thin mist hugged the ramparts at dawn, lavender in the early light. From their perch on the watchtower roof, Cress and Wren pointed excitedly toward the south road where last night's smoke had thinned to pale smudges. Edric trained the rust-patched spyglass on a scorched barn in the distance. No riders, no banners—just charred beams and a lone, stubborn rooster picking at ashes.
"Scouts pulled back after we answered," he murmured.
"Or rode wide to find softer prey," Brynn said at his elbow. She blew on the tea Rafe had pressed into her hand, steam curling past the edges of her leather patch. "Either way, they know we can shoot now. They'll come heavier."
"Then we meet heavier," Edric replied. Below them Fiona's hammer rang, the forge glow already bright despite the hour. For every burnt rafter in that distant barn, the keep seemed to spark two new nails here. But nails alone wouldn't hold a siege.
After the midday meal of thin boar stew, Brynn ordered every able soul to the barracks hall—stone walls, straw mattresses pushed aside, a single oil lamp flickering over damp flagstones. Garrick stood near the door, arms crossed. Ronan leaned his tower shield against a post, visor up. Even Rafe had been coaxed away from his ledger.
At the center of the room lay an old round shield, its paint long gone. Brynn knelt, drew a stub of chalk, and began to trace three rings: an outer hoop near the rim, a smaller circle half-way in, and a tight knot at the heart no larger than a coin.
Edric stepped forward. "You've met the first circle already—Edge runes." He tapped the outer ring. "Fiona's hook glyph on the shield rims? That's Edge: quick to carve, fades fast."
Fiona, perched on a bunk, flushed crimson but kept listening.
"This," Brynn said, touching the middle ring, "is Chain. Needs royal blood to anchor. Lasts longer, hits harder, and it steals the prince's strength each time he calls it."
Murmurs rustled. Will's hand shot up before he remembered soldiers didn't usually ask questions.
"Speak," Brynn said.
"If Chain hurts him, why use it?"
"Because sometimes we all stay alive that way," Edric answered simply. "But I have limits. Ten top-tier pulses in a lifetime—maybe fewer. I've burned one."
Garrick strode forward, set a thick finger on the innermost knot. "Crown Rune. Time slows, steel melts, and bones shatter if you aren't born to it. Even if you are, each pulse is two days of pain and one step toward the grave. We hope never to see it." He eyed Edric with a mixture of respect and dread. "But we might."
Silence swelled—no sermon, just the scrape of chalk grinding stone reality into minds.
Brynn clapped her hands once. "Questions answered. Back to work." She wiped chalk dust on her trousers. "Remember—outer ring is yours to swing; middle ring costs the prince; center ring costs the realm."
The yard vibrated with preparation all afternoon. Recruits lugged planks for a second fighting platform; Garrick drilled archers until fingertips bled. Every time an arrow thudded home, Will called the range aloud: "Twenty-seven paces—low left!" His fear had found a new voice: measurement.
Near the forge Edric watched Fiona test her hook rune on a slab of hanging rope. One swipe—rope parted like silk. She whooped, dropping the shield in the dust.
"That edge will last fifteen minutes," Edric warned, though he grinned with her. "Enough for one charge."
"Then I'd better hit something worth cutting," she said. Sparks still danced in her eyes.
Feeling the weight of leadership and curiosity both, Edric carried a fresh shield blank to the forge. "I want one Chain rune built in. Let's see if the wall can borrow a little of my crash."
Brynn, hearing, scowled but didn't forbid him. Fiona drew the glyph's outline; Edric pricked his thumb, pressed three drops into the groove. Gold light soaked into oak. The rune stayed dull—waiting for command.
Edric steadied a breath, activated it. A shimmer rippled over the shield's face; his pulse stumbled, then righted. Ache? Yes. Crash? Gentle—like a bruise compared to yesterday's hammer blow.
"That's workable," he said, though sweat beaded at his temple. "We'll bind four more tonight."
"But only four," Brynn cautioned. "Crash mild once; bite harsher next round."
Dusk. Garrick called archers to the half-built platform above the south gate. Ten ugly bows lined the railing, arrowheads dipped in tallow and ash to cut glare. Edric climbed the ladder last, bracer cool but heavy on his arm.
"Sight lines decent," Garrick said, gesturing across the slaughtergrass. "If they come by moon, we'll hear brush crack first."
Rafe appeared at the foot of the ladder holding a rolled parchment. "Courier bird from the capital," he called up. "Black wax."
Edric and Brynn exchanged looks. Black wax meant royal affairs—usually bad news cloaked in politeness. Edric broke the seal, unfurled the paper, and read:
By decree of Regent Lord Marrow, all royal artifacts—crowns, signet seals, and blood-keys—must be registered in the capital within thirty days.
Failure is treason.
Brynn's curse was short and sharp. Garrick paled beneath his road dust. Ronan spat over the parapet.
"They know you're alive," Brynn murmured. "And they want the bracer in chains before you rebuild."
"Thirty days to ride north, sign away power, and come home emptied," Edric said. He rolled the parchment tight, slid it into a belt pouch. "We'll send a polite refusal—after we survive Geldar."
Garrick nodded like a man who has already weighed odds and sharpened blades. "Then lesson's done. Rest what hours are left."
Night fell clear for the first time in a week. Stars looked chilled and sharp. Edric lingered beneath the banner that now bore blood prints, boar tusks, and six soot streaks. He touched the cloth where his palm stain had dried darkest.
Ronan approached, visor raised so moonlight silvered his blunt features. "You've burned one Crown pulse and one Chain crash," he said evenly. "How many top pulses you got left?"
"Eight," Edric answered. "But we'll win before we spend them."
Ronan snorted. "Save at least one. I want a story to tell my kids."
"You planning on children?"
"Depends if the bucket helm scares anyone into marrying me." His grin—half self-mock, half hope—was easy in the dark.
Edric looked beyond the wall, where faint torch dots now trembled on the horizon—scouts or campfires; hard to tell. The chill slid past his cloak, but his resolve felt like hot iron under skin.
"Tomorrow," he called softly to the night, to the watchers beyond, to the eager recruits below, "tomorrow we count names, not graves."
Ashcoil's scales glimmered at his throat, echoing the vow in warm light. The serpent whispered only one thought: Hold fast.
Edric nodded to the dark. Holding fast would have to do—until holding fast became pushing back.