Edric's morning began with a cough that wasn't his own. A rasp drifted through the half-open shutter, followed by a sweetness that had no place in a fortress yard. He swung both legs off the cot and paused; the air in his lungs felt coated, as if he'd sipped syrup instead of breathed. Sweet-lily syrup. No drizzle, no smoke from breakfast fires, just a perfumed haze floating between barracks walls like gossip. Ashcoil stirred under his shirt collar; the serpent's scales shimmered dusk-gold, warning enough.
Edric shoved feet into boots, shrugged on yesterday's cloak, and stepped outside. The courtyard was an ocean of pale fog. Lanterns still glowed against boarded windows because dawn light had barely found courage to climb the wall. For once the goat was quiet, tethered near the forge and stamping nervously instead of chewing something valuable. Across the yard, a lone lantern burned under the main arch: Rafe had risen early again. Chalk scraped slate with the scratchy staccato of a quill on bone.
Edric joined him, blinking at the numbers the quartermaster had already updated:
BOWS 17 ARROWS 136
SHIELDS 34 MASK-CLOTH 9
VINEGAR 11 JARS CHARCOAL ?
"Ledger choking?" Edric asked, voice muffled by fog.
"Ledger's drowning in perfume," Rafe muttered, underlining the question mark beside CHARCOAL. He snapped the chalk in irritation; half clattered into a puddle. "Nine rags, eleven jars— sweet rot in the air and scraps on our faces."
Edric inhaled, regretted it. Lily sweetness coated the back of his throat again. "Not scraps. Masks."
"Not masks either," Rafe said. "Bandanas. Better than empty lungs, worse than everything else."
A goat-bleat wavered from the forge shadows as if to agree. Will slogged past, hair sticking in odd tufts, lute banging his hip. "Morning, Prince. Air smells prettier than my aunt's grave."
Edric half-smiled. "Pretty can kill."
"It often does," Brynn answered, arriving with spear balanced across her shoulder. The patched brace beneath her left knee clicked like an ill-oiled hinge. She ignored it, sniffed once, and grimaced. "Wind swung north sometime past midnight. If Tevrin's wagons kept the river road, they'll brush our walls tomorrow—or sooner if they've found horses faster than fear."
"Better we meet them before they meet stone," Edric said. "Double mask cloth before noon. Tear tunics. Strip the goat if you must."
The goat bleated a scandalized protest; Will laughed. Rafe scribbled the order, muttering that tunic cloth did not grow on hedges.
Fiona hurried from the forge with a steaming kettle clutched in gloved hands. Vinegar vapor whirled over the rim and drifted into fog, eating sweetness in small pockets. "Vinegar brew," she announced. "Stick noses in or breathe lilies later."
Will bent over the kettle, inhaled sharply, gagged, then laughed a squeak. "Smells like pickled socks."
"That's how you know it works," Fiona replied, tying a fresh strip across Will's mouth before he recovered.
Ashcoil slipped farther down Edric's sleeve. The serpent rarely enjoyed vinegar or lilies; its instincts wanted clean warmth and clear air. "Hold steady," Edric whispered. The reptile hesitated, then rested against his collarbone, minimal peace.
Axes bit pine near the unfinished palisade; sap rose like cider, battling lilies for control of morning scent. Merra's apprentices soaked mask cloth in big barrels, browning vinegar sloshing over plank edges. Brynn herded spear-line recruits into ranks. "Twist, snap, breathe through rag or breathe never!" she barked. Each recruit wore wet linen across face, eyes already watering. The drill was simple: hook-tipped practice arrows hammered into shields. On command they pressed, rotated wrists, snapped barbs free. Metal clanged, cloth muffled curses, vinegar splashed boots.
Ronan lumbered up in full armor, tower shield in one gauntleted hand, a pitiful scrap of cloth in the other. "Mask's sized for a chicken," he grumbled through his beard.
"It'll fit your principles," Brynn replied, cinching the knot so tight Ronan's beard tufted sideways. He rumbled displeasure but accepted his fate.
Sir Harlan appeared on the archer platform, vinegar rag tied pirate-style. "Loose with masks on!" he hollered. "Your eyes do the aiming, your noses do the smelling!" Three arrows hissed out; one thudded center hay, the others at least hit target. "Better than blind!" Harlan declared. "Do it again."
Fiona hammered by the forge, shaping small iron hooks. She plunged a strip of heart-iron into quench oil, then etched twin glyphs along its edge: sixteen-minute runework. She carried it to Edric, cheeks glowing from heat. "Time it." Sixteen seconds of pale blue shimmer crawled the length of metal; Edric counted roughly to prove her right. Pain nicked behind his eyes already—like a flicker reminding him that every glow cost blood.
Cress skidded down the watch-tower rope, boots throwing mud droplets. "Smoke smear on north ridge," he shouted. "Thin, white, sweet—and closer than dawn."
Edric stepped to the parapet. Even through vinegar rag he smelled lilies stronger now, like syrup poured from a higher window. "Archers," he said, not raising his voice and yet everyone heard, "practise nocking blind. Tomorrow hay bales will be priests, and hay won't spit poison back."
Rafe commandeered an interior wall of the mess hall. Chalk rivers, roads, and dotted fields spread under his frantic hand. Innisford's square sat white; a green X appeared two leagues north. Scouts soon confirmed denser smoke; Rafe added a second X. Will stood nearby, hugging his lute as if it might block wind. "The carts crawl," he said. "We could shove them into the marsh."
"Or they spread on purpose," Rafe answered, highlighting each X. "A wagon on every road keeps fear cheap."
Edric laid gloved finger on the newest mark. "Tonight we send a sortie. Ten masks. We bring back a priest or a crate. Maybe both."
Fiona burst in, jar clasped to her chest. Blue-silver ink shimmered under torchlight. "Rowe barge delivery," she announced with pride. "Elena says it glows when plague smoke thickens."
Brynn tilted her head, studied the jar. "Smart merchant. She'll send the invoice."
Edric unscrewed the lid; vapors of cold peppermint rose. He dotted ink on the rim of his buckler. In clear air it faded to gray—a silent promise to brighten if lilies thickened. He pocketed ink beside the cipher wheel. Two Rowe gifts side-by-side—intelligence and light—both heavy in a prince's pocket.
A hiss sliced through courtyard noise. A single jade-capped arrow sailed over the river palisade, struck a fresh stake, and quivered. Resin beaded at the tip; Edric saw it glisten. Sweet smoke spooled upward, greedy.
Brynn had moved before the arrow landed. She twisted, snapped off the head, hurled it toward Fiona, who caught the shaft in tongs, dunked it into vinegar. Steam hissed; sweetness fought but died in the acidic bath.
"No glyphs," Fiona announced, voice muffled by her own rag. "Pure alchemy."
"Next volley won't be gentle," Edric said. "Ronan, shield the platform. Brynn, choose nine. Masks tight, spears sharp. We leave at dusk."
Brynn's eye glittered; her limp was harsher, yet she only said, "We'll bring something breathing." She selected names—Ronan obviously, Will for arrows, Fiona for runes, two spear guards, three archers. Galen and Dora grinned behind rags though fear twitched their shoulders.
Will wrapped the arrowhead in wet cloth. Merra locked it in crucible fire until green wax burned black. Mask cloth count climbed to thirty-two, vinegar jars down to eight—numbers Rafe scribbled with a shaky hand.
Dusk
Lanterns along the inner wall awakened one by one. The goat, now smelling like pickled iron, dozed at the forge. Wind fretted the banner overhead. Brynn tied a strip of blood-stained knee cloth to its lower edge; just beneath Garrick's helm and soot streaks, the red ribbon flapped—fresh resolve, more weight.
Portcullis chains groaned; the gate lifted half a man's height. Ten figures in vinegar masks stepped into grass silvered by moon dew. Edric carried the buckler at heel, twin-hook rune dormant but hungry. Ink dot remained gray, but one breeze north would feed it colour.
"River bend?" Galen whispered.
"Birch stand first," Brynn muttered. "Then we see." Her knee brace clicked, each sound amplified by quiet.
Fog swallowed the squad. Lily smell thickened as they crept. Will nocked an arrow without command; Fiona flexed hammer grip; Ronan whispered a prayer to stone. Innisford's torches vanished behind them, leaving only moon shadows and sugar rot.
Torches ahead flickered—three wagons, priests chanting. Wheels wrapped in rag; barrels of jade wax gleamed like sick jewels. Edric raised closed fist: halt. The twin-hook rune under his shield twitched awake, licking blue across iron. Light painted fog into stripes; priests froze mid-chant.
"Now," Edric breathed. He stepped wide, rune gust roaring. Smoke curled backwards, priests recoiled. Brynn lunged right, spear crackling. Ronan lifted shield; archers split left; arrows hissed.
One priest hurled a sling loaded with glass vials. Ronan blocked with shield, Fiona smashed sling arm with hammer. Vials flew high, burst in trees—lilies flared then were sucked east by rune wind.
Spearmen Galen and Dora toppled a crate; wax bricks skidded, releasing poison. Brynn stabbed a vent hole to channel draft. Will's arrow pinned a priest's robe to wagon bed; Brynn's spear butt cracked another's ankle.
Edric felt migraine rise—twelve minutes left. Pain bloomed like a private star field. He pressed buckler against wagon edge, forcing smoke skyward. Fiona splashed lamp oil; Brynn applied flame. Fire leaped green, then blue, then blinding white as Rowe ink dot on buckler flared to turquoise.
Priest driver shrieked something about blessed lilies cleansing doubt. Brynn silenced doubt with spear haft to temple. Ronan snatched another priest by collar, hoisted him like grain sack.
Wax wagons crackled. Edric signaled retreat. Rune light dimmed; pain bit deeper. Fiona grabbed his sleeve as they withdrew; every footstep felt heavier.
Portcullis torches returned like sunrise. Inside walls, recruits doused Ronan's shield in sand. Prisoners were dragged to storage bay. Edric collapsed on crate, salt water pressing nausea flat. Brynn barked orders even while bracing her knee against stone.
Fiona knelt, counted Edric's pulse. "Fourteen minutes used. Two in reserve."
"Enough for tomorrow," he said, though his eyes blurred.
Mask cloth stripped from faces. Air inside bastion felt only of vinegar now— lilies beaten back. For the first time, Edric believed the wall might outlive the night.