Rain swept in hard across the battlements, blurring the line between sky and earth. Westernlight had become a churn of noise and motion: bells tolling in short bursts, the creak of winches, the groan of the great gates bearing their new weight. Beyond the wall, only flashes of lightning gave shape to the burning fields—brief glimpses of chaos before darkness reclaimed them.

Commander Delun stood beneath the watchtower eaves, water streaming from his armor in thin silver lines. The rain had found every dent and joint, each movement ringing faintly like a struck bell. He ignored it. His gaze stayed fixed on the plains where the fires were dying.

“Scouts confirm the goblin vanguard has split,” said a lieutenant, hurrying up with a scroll clutched beneath one arm. “Half toward the river, half circling north.”

Delun didn’t look at him. “And the refugees?”

“Inner gates secured, sir. The lower quarter’s overflowing. Captain Valen is directing them toward the granary vaults for shelter.”

Delun nodded once. “Good. If the river wall breaks, they’ll have higher ground.”

The lieutenant hesitated. “Some of the councilmen are demanding entry to the upper keep.”

“Let them demand.” Delun turned at last, eyes shadowed beneath the rim of his helm. “If they want to watch a siege from dry floors, they can climb the wall themselves.”

The young officer swallowed, saluted, and retreated into the rain.

Delun remained, hands braced on cold stone. Lightning forked over the black plains; for an instant it caught movement—shapes darting low between the charred stalks, too many to count. Then darkness again.

He drew a slow breath, exhaled through his teeth. “So it begins,” he murmured. The words vanished into the rain.

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Below, the city roared even in its fear. Soldiers pushed through crowds of refugees, torches carving jagged paths through the gloom. Horses splashed through flooded streets. The smell of wet iron clung to everything.

Valen rode among them, his white cloak plastered to his shoulders, streaked gray by soot. He shouted orders gently—his voice the calm to Delun’s thunder. “This way! Move toward the granary steps! Keep close together!”

A woman stumbled into his path, clutching a bleeding child. He swung from the saddle, lifted the boy, and passed him to a medic cart. “Tell the healers—temple’s priority.”

The woman’s eyes filled. “Thank you, Ser Knight.”

Valen only nodded, remounting. “Thank me when the gates hold.”

He spurred forward, glancing toward the towering silhouette of the temple in the city’s heart. Bells rang there too, but slower—a different rhythm altogether.

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Inside the temple, the air was thick with incense and rain-steam. Priests moved in anxious murmurs between pillars, whispering prayers to gods they weren’t sure were listening.

Near the altar lay a girl on a straw mat, wrapped in a wet cloak. Her hair clung to her face; her eyes flickered beneath closed lids. An acolyte reached to wake her, but the high priest lifted a hand.

“Not yet. She’s dreaming again.”

The girl’s lips moved, though her eyes stayed shut. Words slipped out—soft at first, then stronger, echoing through the hall:   “Blood on marble… a crown in shadow… two hearts bound by fire…”

Her hands clenched. The oil lamps bowed inward as though the air itself had drawn breath. Then her eyes opened—bright, unseeing—and she screamed.

The sound wasn’t human. It raced through the arches, down the temple steps, out into the street where even soldiers paused. Rain struck harder for a heartbeat, as if the sky itself recoiled.

When she stopped, she was gasping, staring at the ceiling. “He’s dying,” she whispered. “The king. The crown bleeds tonight.”

The priests exchanged frightened looks.

One of them—the high priest—leaned closer. “What else did you see, child?”

Chaste blinked once. Her voice steadied, though her hands still shook. “Two lights in the dark. Scales on skin. They wake when the red moon rises.”

The high priest drew back, face pale. “The old prophecy…”

Thunder rolled over the rooftops. The great bells began to toll again—one set for the wall, one for the temple. Different rhythms, same fear.

Far above, Delun turned his head toward the sound, rain running down his scarred cheek. “Whatever that was,” he said softly, “I hope it favors us.”