Two Weeks
The scouts returned at dawn with news that froze blood despite the warming spring.
"Ten thousand soldiers," the lead scout reported, breathless from hard riding. "Maybe more. They're moving in three columns—main force down the central valley, flanking forces through the eastern and western approaches. Professional coordination. This isn't a mob. It's an army."
Lioran stood in the council chamber with maps spread before them, marking positions as the scout described. Kaelen, Valdis, Duke Aldren, and the others traced the approach routes with grim focus.
"Two weeks until they arrive," Valdis calculated. "Maybe less if they force march. We need our harassment units in position within three days."
"The guerrilla teams are ready," Serra reported. "Forty fighters, divided into eight units. Northern and southern mixed, each team with both fire and ice mages. They'll hit supply lines, slow the advance, bleed them before they reach us."
"And if Crane sends cavalry to hunt our teams?" Aldren asked.
"They scatter into terrain cavalry can't follow," Valdis said. "Forest and marsh. Our people know these lands now. Crane's soldiers are fighting on foreign ground."
"What about the settlements beyond Thornhaven?" Elara asked. "We have four other villages under our protection. They're exposed."
Silence fell across the chamber.
"We can't defend everywhere," Torven said bluntly. "We don't have the numbers."
"Then we evacuate them," Lioran said. "Bring everyone here. Concentrate our forces, protect our people in one defensible position rather than spread thin."
"That's over five hundred refugees," Henrik warned. "We're already at capacity."
"Then we expand capacity," Lioran replied. "We've got two weeks. We build temporary shelters, ration carefully, and we keep people alive. That's what matters."
The council voted, and evacuation orders went out immediately.
.....
Evacuation
The northern road filled with refugees—again. Always again.
Families carried what they could, abandoning homes they'd just rebuilt. Children cried, confused by another uprooting. Old people moved slowly, their exhaustion visible in every step.
But unlike previous evacuations, this time they weren't fleeing into uncertainty. They were moving toward protection, toward a place that had proven it could defend them.
Lioran rode along the column, the ember quiet in his chest but watchful. He'd learned to read its moods now—this was readiness, not rage. Preparation, not consumption.
A young boy tugged at his cloak. "Are we going to die?"
His mother gasped, trying to pull him back, but Lioran knelt to meet the child's eyes.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I hope not. We're going to fight very hard to make sure you don't. But I can't promise we'll win."
"Then why fight?" the boy asked.
"Because if we don't, they'll kill us anyway. At least this way, we have a chance. And sometimes a chance is all you need."
The boy nodded seriously, as if this made perfect sense, and returned to his mother. Lioran heard her whisper: "He's honest. At least he's honest."
By week's end, Thornhaven's population had swollen to over eight hundred souls. The settlement groaned under the strain—housing inadequate, supplies stretched thin, the air thick with fear and determination mixed.
But they endured. Because that's what refugees did—they endured.
....
The First Skirmishes
The harassment began five days before the crusade reached Thornhaven.
Serra's teams struck at dawn, hitting a supply wagon at the rear of Crane's main column. Fire arrows ignited grain stores. Ice magic froze wagon wheels, shattering them when soldiers tried to move. The team scattered before reinforcements arrived, disappearing into forest that swallowed them like smoke.
A day later, another team poisoned a water source—not fatally, just enough to cause sickness, slow the advance. Northern ice preserved the contamination long enough for hundreds to drink before scouts noticed.
The eastern flank's vanguard walked into a marsh where ice mages had frozen the surface deceptively—it looked solid but collapsed under armored weight, sending men plunging into frigid mud. Those who tried to help were targeted by fire arrows from hidden positions.
Crane's response was brutal. He burned entire forest sections, trying to drive out the guerrillas. He executed prisoners taken from raids. He pushed his army harder, accepting casualties to maintain momentum.
But the harassment worked. By the time scouts reported the crusade within three days' march, they'd lost perhaps five hundred soldiers to attrition, disease, and ambush. Not enough to break them, but enough to exhaust and demoralize.
"It's working," Valdis said grimly, reviewing reports. "But now comes the hard part. They're too close for more raids. Our teams are pulling back to defensive positions."
"Then we prepare for siege," Kaelen said. "And we hope our walls hold."
.....
The Message
Two days before the crusade's arrival, another rider came under flag of truce.
Not Crane this time, but a different priest—younger, his face marked by doubt rather than certainty. He carried a sealed letter addressed personally to Lioran.
The council gathered as Lioran broke the seal and read aloud:
*Dragon Lord,*
*This is the final mercy offered. I have seen your works and found them wanting. I have witnessed your heresies and judged them damning. But I am not without compassion.*
*Surrender yourself before dawn tomorrow. Come alone to the southern ridge. Submit to purification, and I will spare Thornhaven. Your followers may disperse peacefully. The northern mercenaries may return home. Duke Aldren's betrayal will be noted but not immediately punished, allowing time for him to reconsider his position.*
*Refuse, and I will show you the true meaning of purification. Every soul in that settlement will burn. Every structure will be reduced to ash. I will erase Thornhaven from history so completely that in a generation, no one will remember it existed.*
*You have until dawn.*
*— Cardinal Crane*
"Mercenaries," Valdis spat. "He calls us mercenaries."
"He's trying to divide us," Aldren observed. "Make the northern soldiers think they're just hired swords who can walk away. Offer me an exit to weaken resolve."
"Will it work?" Renn asked.
"No," Valdis said flatly. "The Frost Guard doesn't abandon positions. And the Queen would freeze me solid if I came home without the Dragon Lord."
"The question," Elara said quietly, "is whether we let Lioran decide this alone, or whether the council votes."
All eyes turned to Lioran.
The ember pulsed hot. Part of him wanted to rage against the ultimatum, to burn the messenger and send Crane a message written in fire. Another part—the part Evelina had taught to question—wondered if surrender might actually be the right choice.
Eight hundred lives. Women, children, elderly. People who trusted him to protect them.
Against his one life.
"Council vote," Lioran said, his voice steady despite the ember's protests. "This affects everyone. Everyone gets a voice."
The vote was swift and unanimous: they would not surrender Lioran.
"If we give him you," Serra said, "we prove that power matters more than principle. That might makes right. Everything we've built here dies the moment we trade you for temporary safety."
"Besides," Kaelen added with grim humor, "Crane's lying. He'll kill us all anyway, whether you surrender or not. At least this way we die fighting."
"Inspiring," Torven muttered, but he was smiling slightly.
Lioran turned to the messenger. "Tell Crane the answer is no. Tell him Thornhaven stands. And tell him that when his crusade breaks against our walls, history will remember who chose violence and who chose defense."
The messenger bowed and departed, his expression suggesting he'd expected no other answer.
.....
The Last Night
That evening, Thornhaven was quiet.
Not peaceful—too much tension for peace—but quiet. People sat with families, held children, whispered prayers to gods who might or might not be listening.
Soldiers checked weapons, sharpened blades, tested bowstrings. The Frost Guard performed rituals of ice, creating protective charms that glowed faintly blue. Southern fighters painted their faces with ash, old traditions resurfacing before battle.
Lioran walked the walls, speaking with guards, sharing what little reassurance he could offer. The ember pulsed steadily, like a second heartbeat, ready but not demanding.
He found Mira in the chapel, kneeling before a simple altar.
"I'm not sure I believe anymore," she said without looking up. "After everything. But habit is hard to break."
"Maybe habit is enough," Lioran said, kneeling beside her. "Maybe the gods care more about the trying than the believing."
"Do you think we'll survive tomorrow?"
"Honestly? I don't know. We have good people, strong walls, northern support, and Duke Aldren's forces. But ten thousand is still ten thousand."
"Are you afraid?"
Lioran considered that. "No. The ember's burned away most fear. But I'm... aware. Of what's at stake. Of what we could lose."
Mira took his hand. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know—I'm proud of you. Not for the power, not for the battles. For choosing to be more than what you could have been. For building instead of just burning."
"I learned from you," Lioran said. "You taught me that survival isn't enough. That how we survive matters."
They sat in silence as darkness deepened outside, mother and son, preparing for a battle that would determine not just their survival but the future of everything they'd built.
In the distance, the first campfires of Crane's crusade appeared on the horizon—thousands of lights, like stars fallen to earth.
Ten thousand soldiers. Fifty priests. The combined might of kingdoms united in holy purpose.
Against Thornhaven's walls, defended by refugees, heretics, northern soldiers, and a Dragon Lord who'd learned that power without purpose was just destruction waiting to happen.
The ember pulsed one final time before settling into patient readiness.
Dawn would bring fire.
Dawn would bring ice.
Dawn would bring the crusade.
And Thornhaven would face it together.
The final test had come.