Through my scope I saw the defenders responding to Silva's team. Reinforcements moving along the wall. Not panicking—organized. Someone was directing them.

  And then I saw him.

  Bigger than the others. Better armor. Moving with purpose, not panic. Pointing, directing, organizing the defense like he knew what he was doing.

  Level 7, maybe 8. The elite spawn Silva had mentioned. The one with actual tactical skills.

  Crosshairs on him. Two hundred yards, moving target, but I'd made worse shots. Pushed forty mana into the cartridge this time. The brass got hot enough I almost dropped it.

  Exhaled. Squeezed.

  The Sharps boomed. Through the scope I watched the round take him high in the chest. He staggered back—not down, just back. Heavy armor, heavy body. The wound started glowing as a healer reached him.

  Fuck. That should've dropped him.

  Twenty yards.

  Movement on the walls above the gate caught my eye. Orcs positioning something—large cauldrons, fires already lit beneath them.

  Pitch.

  Fuck.

  "PITCH!" I screamed, but there was no way Henrik could hear me.

  I forced myself back to the scope. The orcs with the cauldrons. Shot. Another one. Shot. Someone directing them. Shot.

  Keep shooting. Keep them disrupted. Buy the testudo every second I could.

  Fifteen yards.

  The ram crew was positioning for the strike. Henrik right there with them, shield up, directing placement. The rest of the formation locked shields around them, turning the testudo into a metal cocoon.

  Ten yards.

  "STRIKE!" Henrik's voice.

  The ram swung. The men putting everything they had into it. The oak trunk hit the gate with a boom I felt in my chest from two hundred yards away.

  The gate shuddered. Wood splintered. I could see the damage—cracks spreading, one of the iron bands bent.

  It was working. The plan was actually working.

  That's when the pitch came down.

  Not from one cauldron. From three. Maybe four. All at once, coordinated, like someone had been waiting for exactly this moment.

  Burning pitch poured over the testudo's front ranks.

  Men screamed. High, terrified, pain beyond anything a person should have to feel. The kind of screaming that made your brain want to shut down rather than process it.

  The formation broke.

  Not slowly. Not with discipline. Just broke. Men on fire trying to get out, trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go. The road on one side, bog on the other, and the entire front of the testudo was burning.

  Shields dropped. Men clawed at burning armor, at burning flesh. Some tried to run and went down when the pitch stuck to them kept burning. Others just collapsed where they stood.

  The healers were racing forward, golden light flaring. Some of the wounded they could reach in time. But pitch doesn't just burn. It sticks. It spreads. And when it takes someone down fast enough, when the damage is too severe—

  You can't heal dead.

  Through my scope I watched the ram crew. They'd just struck the gate—successfully, the wood was splintered—but now they were covered in pitch. Burning. One man dropped his end to beat at the flames on his chest. Then another. Then the whole crew just let go.

  The ram lay against the damaged gate. Right there. They'd done it. One more strike might've breached it.

  But the crew was scattered. Some burning. Some being dragged back by healers. Some already down.

  So close. We'd been so fucking close.

  "Fall back!" Henrik's voice, hoarse. "Fighting withdrawal! Maintain—"

  An arrow took him in the throat.

  Not through the armor. Through the gap. That tiny space above the gorget where neck met helmet. The kind of shot that shouldn't happen but does when a hundred archers are shooting and one gets horribly lucky.

  Henrik went down. Just down. No dramatic speech, no final orders. One second he was rallying his men at a gate they'd almost taken. Next second he was on the ground and not moving.

  The Iron Guard wavered. You could see it—that moment when disciplined soldiers become men who just watched their commander die and don't know what to do next.

  "Iron Guard, on me!" One of Henrik's sergeants—older guy, lots of scars—was already taking command. "Controlled withdrawal! Grab the wounded! Move!"

  Taking charge like he'd done it before. Exactly what Henrik would have wanted.

  But Henrik was dead and the assault was over.

  I forced my scope back to the walls. Silva's team was still fighting. Still holding that ten feet of rampart. But reinforcements were pouring in from both directions now, and there were only nine of them.

  Eight. Hanna took an arrow in the chest and my breath caught. She went down hard, and for a second I couldn't process it—Hanna doesn't go down. Hanna's the one who keeps everyone else alive.

  "Silva!" I shouted, knowing he couldn't hear me. "Get them out!"

  The second ladder team on the left wall was already retreating. Smart. They'd done their job and now they were getting out before they died for nothing.

  The third team at the center never made it up. Too much fire. They were pulling back, dragging wounded, leaving the ladder behind.

  Through my scope I watched Emily. Still fighting. Still that perfect bladework that made it look easy when it wasn't. Jayden was pulling Hanna up—she was conscious but bleeding bad, arrow still in her chest.

  Silva was shouting something. Pointing back toward the ladder. Organizing the retreat.

  One of the Rangers went over the wall backward. Didn't fall—jumped. Landed hard and rolled. Hurt, probably, but alive.

  Emily went next. Dropped over the wall, grabbed the ladder on the way down. Hit the ground running.

  Jayden was last. Face tight with something I'd never seen on him before as he basically slid down the ladder one-handed with Hanna draped over his shoulder and an orc trying to brain him from above. How he managed that I'll never know.

  They ran. All eight of them—Hanna on Jayden's shoulder barely conscious—sprinting back across open ground while arrows chased them.

  Most shots went wide. Some didn't. Emily stumbled—arrow in her shoulder, the impact spinning her half around. She kept running, one arm hanging useless, rapier still in her good hand.

  My heart stopped. Just forgot how to beat.

  She was hit. Emily was hit. Arrow in her shoulder and she was still running but what if another one found her, what if she went down, what if—

  I was moving. Sharps forgotten, scope forgotten, everything forgotten except getting to her. Sprinting down the road, boots pounding, lungs burning—

  Something hit me from the side. Not an arrow—Kyle. Full body tackle that took us both into the drainage ditch, muddy water soaking through my clothes.

  "Let GO—"

  "Look at her!" Kyle had me pinned, one hand on my chest. "LOOK!"

  Brian was already there. Golden glow around his hands, one hand on Emily's shoulder where the arrow was lodged. The healing light flared bright and steady. Emily's face was pale but focused, saying something to Brian, nodding.

  "She's stable," Kyle said, not letting me up. "Brian's got her. She's going to be fine."

  Behind Emily, Jayden had lowered Hanna to the ground. His face—God, his face. That grin was gone, replaced by something raw and terrified. Not the orc-fighting Jayden. The big brother watching his sister bleed out. Brian's other hand was already on Hanna's chest, golden light splitting between the two of them, and Jayden was just kneeling there with blood on his hands and that look like the whole world had narrowed down to whether his sister kept breathing.

  My legs felt wrong. Like they might just stop working. "I need to—"

  "You need to do your job." Kyle's voice was flat. "You're tactical coordinator. Act like it."

  He was right. I knew he was right. Emily was safe, Brian was working, and I needed to—

  Movement caught my eye. Down the road, maybe fifty yards from where the remains of the testudo was pulling back.

  Morris.

  Through the chaos I could see him in the drainage ditch, using it for cover while he coordinated suppression fire. The ditch was a muddy mess—water pooled in the low spots—but the lip gave enough cover for archers to work.

  "Suppression team three, shift fire left!" His voice carried. "Cover team one—get those wounded back to the road!"

  Iron Guard fighters were dragging their wounded up out of the killing zone. Morris was directing it all, making sure everyone had covering fire, making sure no one got left behind.

  The spear took him in the upper chest.

  Not an arrow. A thrown spear—heavy, brutal thing meant for hunting boar. It punched through his armor and the man wearing it. The impact drove him backward, out of the ditch and onto the road, blood already spreading.

  "MORRIS!"

  Kyle's grip tightened. "Brian's already moving! You run down there, you're just another casualty. Your job is coordination—so COORDINATE!"

  Through Kyle's grip I watched Brian sprint toward Morris, golden light already forming. Two of Morris's guild fighters reached him first, pulling him further from the killing zone while Brian worked.

  Kyle was right. Morris had healers. Morris had his people. And I had a job to do.

  Even if that job meant standing here while Emily bled and Morris was down and I couldn't do a damn thing about any of it.

  Where was Ashford?

  I forced myself to look. To do the job Kyle was making me do even though every instinct screamed to check Emily again.

  Rockwall's cavalry. They were trying to push forward along the road, but the retreating infantry was in the way—wounded being dragged, men stumbling back, everyone trying to use the same narrow strip of solid ground. Ashford was in the middle of it, shouting and gesturing, trying to get his horses through without trampling the people they were supposed to be protecting.

  Then I saw the Croft Guard. One of them was down—maybe thirty yards from the gate, crawling. Arrow in his leg, dragging himself back toward us but still in the killing zone.

  Ashford saw him too.

  He spurred his horse forward. Not back toward safety. Forward, straight toward the wounded man.

  "What are you doing?" I breathed.

  He reached the wounded fighter and dismounted. Just got off his horse in the middle of the killing zone. Grabbed the man under the arms, started hauling him up onto the mount. Heavy lifting, both hands occupied, completely vulnerable—

  The arrows came.

  I saw them. Didn't need a scope at this distance. Three shafts, maybe four, all finding Ashford in quick succession. His body jerked with each impact. But he kept trying to lift the wounded man, kept trying even as more arrows came. Even as his legs started to buckle.

  He fell against the horse's flank, hands still gripping the wounded fighter's armor, still trying—

  Then he just collapsed. Slid down beside the horse, leaving a streak of blood on the saddle.

  The wounded Croft Guard was half-mounted, confused, trying to understand what had just happened.

  The scarred baronet was already spurring forward, screaming orders. "Recover them! Get them out!"

  Two cavalry riders raced in. One grabbed the wounded Croft Guard. The other reached for Ashford, trying to pull him across his saddle.

  But I could see it. The way Ashford's body hung limp. The blood soaking into the road. The shafts sticking out of his back, his side, his shoulder.

  He was dead. Dead trying to save one of his people.

  The scarred baronet wheeled his horse as his men dragged both bodies back. "Cavalry, form up! Screen the withdrawal! Move!"

  Henrik was dead and Morris was down and Ashford was dead and we were done. The assault was over.

  "Caden!" Kyle finally let me up. "We need to organize this retreat before it becomes a rout!"

  Right. My job.

  I forced my brain to work. Forced myself to see the whole battlefield instead of just Emily's pale face and Morris's blood and Ashford's empty saddle.

  Iron Guard pulling back, wounded in the center, fighting withdrawal. Good.

  Croft Guard forming up to cover them. Good.

  Morris—was he—?

  Brian was there, hands glowing, working on him. Morris was conscious. Moving. Wounded but alive.

  Okay. We could work with alive.

  Kyle stepped back, watching me. Making sure I wasn't going to lose it again.

  I wouldn't. Couldn't afford to.

  Rockwall's cavalry under the scarred baronet, screening the retreat. Good.

  The ladder teams making it back, most of them. Casualties but not catastrophic.

  The testudo—what was left of it—pulling back from the gate. Maybe sixty fighters of the original ninety still on their feet. The rest dead or being carried.

  We could do this. We could get everyone out.

  "Pull back to four hundred yards!" I shouted, voice cracking but carrying. "All units, fighting withdrawal! Cavalry screen, suppression teams cover the retreat! Get the wounded clear first!"

  Orders. Someone had to give orders and there wasn't anyone else.

  The withdrawal happened. Not pretty, not perfect, but it happened. Fighters pulling back up the road, cavalry moving to block pursuit, healers grabbing wounded and dragging them to safety.

  The orcs didn't pursue beyond bow range. Why would they? They'd won.

  Twenty minutes later we were at the rally point. Four hundred yards back where we'd started. Out of arrow range. Safe.

  If you could call this safe.

  Behind us, the fort erupted in celebration. Horns blowing, drums beating, orcs dancing on the walls. Three baronies had thrown their best at them, and they'd won. We'd been a brief interruption to their day, worth some entertainment and bragging rights.

  Politics had written a check in blood, and we'd just paid it in full.

  Chapter 26: UDS Day 210

  Morris looked like death. Not the dramatic kind from movies where people get peaceful expressions. The real kind, where skin goes the color of old dishwater and breathing sounds wrong. Brian had him propped against a wagon wheel, golden light flickering around his hands as he worked on the spear wound in Morris's upper chest.

  My brain kept insisting this wasn't happening. That Morris would sit up any second, start barking orders, tell us exactly how to unfuck this disaster.

  Except Brian's face—that tight, focused expression that meant he was burning through mana—told me everything I needed to know.

  Morris was stable. He'd live. But he wasn't getting up. Wasn't taking charge. Not for hours, maybe not until tomorrow.

  "Henrik?" An Iron Guard soldier wandered past, blood running down his face from a scalp wound. "Anyone seen Captain Henrik?"

  Yeah. I'd seen him. Arrow through the throat during the withdrawal. The kind of dead you don't come back from.

  "Where's Lord Ashford?" A Rockwall fighter, voice cracking. "Has anyone—"

  Dead. Trying to save one of his own people. Multiple arrows while he was completely exposed.

  That's when my Junior Commander class started screaming in my head. Not literally—the System didn't talk to you like that. But suddenly I could feel it, this awareness of everything falling apart around me. Unit cohesion dissolving like sugar in water. That moment—maybe twenty seconds away—when panic would set in and 180 exhausted fighters would become a mob.

  My feet were moving before I'd made the decision. Toward our Columbia people first, because they'd listen even if nobody else would.

  "Columbia! Form up on me!" My voice came out harder than I expected. "We're leaving. Now."

  Emily appeared at my left, sword in her good hand. Dried blood still darkened the leather around her shoulder where Brian had pulled that arrow out—healed now, but the stain remained. A reminder of how close I'd come to losing her twenty minutes ago.

  Jayden came from the direction of the wagons, face tight in a way I'd never seen on him. He'd just left Hanna there—chest wound healed enough that she wouldn't die, but she wasn't getting up anytime soon. His sister, the one person he'd kill the world to protect, and he'd had to set her down and walk away because we needed him here.

  "She stable?" I asked, low enough the others wouldn't hear.

  "Matt's with her." His jaw worked. "She's gonna be pissed she missed this."

  That was Jayden-speak for I'm terrified but I'll function. Good enough.

  Our people responded like we'd drilled this—which we hadn't—but seven months of fighting together meant they knew that tone.

  "Brian!" I called. "Morris?"

  He shook his head without looking up. "Stable. But he's not walking anywhere. Not for hours."

  "Load him first. Gentle as you can."

  I looked around. The Croft Guard had formed a shield wall maybe fifty yards closer to the fort—rearguard position, holding the line while everyone else withdrew. Exactly what they should be doing.

  The Iron Guard was pulling back through them in good order, wounded supported by healthier fighters. Henrik had trained them well—even without him, they knew their job.

  The scarred baronet had Rockwall's cavalry positioned on the road behind us, ready to screen any pursuit from the fort. Smart positioning—they couldn't use the boggy flanks, but they could block the one approach the orcs could actually use.

  Everyone was doing what they should. But nobody was coordinating the next move. Nobody was deciding when to pull that Croft Guard rearguard back, when to start the wagons moving, what formation we'd use for the retreat.

  That's what was missing. Not organization—command.

  I jogged toward the Croft Guard position. The Knight-Sergeant—the one who'd been guiding Ashford through the tactical discussions—was there, maintaining the line.

  "Sergeant! We need to start moving. Can your people maintain rearguard while we get the wagons loaded?"

  He looked at me—fifteen-year-old kid giving orders—and I saw him make the calculation. No Ashford. No Henrik. No Morris. Just me and the job that needed doing.

  "Five minutes," he said. "Then we pull back to the wagons. But someone needs to coordinate the movement."

 

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