First Light
The sun rose blood-red over Thornhaven, casting long shadows across the valley.
Lioran stood on the southern wall, watching the crusade array itself below. Ten thousand soldiers arranged in perfect formations, their armor catching the dawn light like a sea of steel. Siege towers loomed behind the front ranks, their wheels creaking as oxen hauled them into position. Catapults and trebuchets dotted the landscape, already being loaded with stones and flaming pitch.
And at the center, beneath the largest banner—white flame on crimson cloth—sat Cardinal Crane in his war pavilion, surrounded by fifty priests whose staffs glowed with accumulated divine power.
"It's beautiful in a terrible way," Renn said beside him. "All that organization, all that discipline, dedicated to destroying us."
"That's what makes them dangerous," Lioran replied. "They're not a mob. They're believers with structure and purpose."
Below them, Thornhaven's defenders took their positions. Three thousand five hundred souls against ten thousand. The walls were strong but not insurmountable. The supplies adequate but not abundant. The magic powerful but not unlimited.
Everything they'd built for months would be tested in hours.
Valdis approached from the northern section, her ice-armor gleaming. "The Frost Guard are ready. Western approach is secured. If they try to flank, they'll find frozen ground and archers."
"Aldren's knights?" Kaelen asked.
"Eastern section. Heavy cavalry kept in reserve for counterattack if they breach." Kaelen's jaw was tight. "If. Not when."
"If," Kaelen confirmed, though his eyes suggested he was preparing for when.
A horn sounded from Crane's position—long, mournful, final.
"Here they come," Torven said, nocking an arrow.
.....
The First Wave
The crusade advanced in disciplined ranks, shields locked, chanting prayers that rolled across the valley like distant thunder. Behind them, priests raised their staffs, and white fire began to coalesce in the air above the army—not attacking yet, but ready. A threat made visible.
"Hold," Lioran commanded, his voice carrying along the walls. "Let them come into range. Conserve arrows. Conserve magic. Make every shot count."
The crusaders reached two hundred paces. One hundred fifty. One hundred.
"Fire!" Kaelen shouted.
Arrows darkened the sky, arcing down into the advancing ranks. Men fell, shields raised too late, armor pierced. But the advance didn't falter. For every soldier who fell, another stepped forward to fill the gap.
Fire arrows from Flamebound archers struck the siege towers, but the wood had been treated with something flame-resistant. The fires sputtered and died.
"They learned from previous battles," Serra said grimly. "Crane adapted."
The crusaders reached the walls. Ladders rose, hooks catching stone. Rams began their rhythmic pounding against the gates—boom, boom, boom, like a giant's heartbeat.
"Ice!" Valdis called.
Frost mages sent waves of freezing air down the walls, coating ladders with slippery ice. Climbers lost their grip, falling to shatter on the ground below. But more came, and more, an endless tide.
Lioran raised his hands, and fire erupted—not wild, but controlled. Streams of flame that targeted ladder bases, burning through rope and wood. Beside him, Renn fought with sword and shield, cutting down crusaders who crested the wall.
The ember roared to life in Lioran's chest, singing with the joy of battle, demanding more violence, more destruction. He pushed back against it, using Evelina's techniques, keeping the fire focused and purposeful rather than letting it consume everything.
"Remember," he called to the Flamebound nearby, "controlled burns! Don't exhaust yourselves! This is a marathon, not a sprint!"
.....
The Divine Fire
Crane's priests finally unleashed their accumulated power.
White fire descended from the sky in pillars, each one targeting a section of wall. The divine flame was different from Lioran's—colder somehow, more absolute. Where it struck, stone cracked, wood vaporized, defenders screamed and dove for cover.
"Shields!" Valdis commanded. Ice mages raised barriers of frozen water, but the white fire burned through them like they were paper.
A pillar struck near Lioran, the heat so intense it drove him to his knees. The ember shrieked in his chest, recognizing a rival power, demanding he meet fire with fire.
"No," Lioran gasped, fighting his own nature. If he unleashed everything, he'd burn his own people along with the enemy.
But he couldn't do nothing.
He stood, raised both hands, and pulled. Not pushing fire outward, but pulling heat toward himself—drawing the divine flame into his own body, absorbing it through the ember. Pain tore through him as the two fires met inside his chest, divine and draconic warring for dominance.
The white fire pillar flickered, weakened, died.
Crane's distant roar of fury carried even over the battle: "Again! All of you! Break him!"
Ten pillars of white fire descended at once, all targeting Lioran.
"No!" Valdis lunged, her ice magic creating a dome over him just as the fires struck. The ice held for perhaps three seconds before shattering, but those seconds were enough for Lioran to regain his footing.
"I can counter them," Lioran said, blood running from his nose. "But not all at once. We need coordination."
"Then we give them coordination," a new voice called.
Sister Elara climbed onto the wall, twenty reformed Church priests behind her—the ones who'd joined Thornhaven, who'd questioned Crane's doctrine. They raised their own staffs, and white fire bloomed—but gentler, warmer, protective rather than destructive.
"Counter-blessing!" Elara shouted. "Divine fire against divine fire! Let's see who the gods actually favor!"
The two groups of priests engaged in a battle invisible to most—threads of white light clashing in the air above the battlefield, some trying to destroy, others trying to protect. The civilians couldn't see the struggle, but they felt its effects as the rain of destructive fire lessened.
.....
The Breach
Hours passed. The sun climbed toward noon.
Defenders rotated off the walls in shifts, grabbing moments of rest, water, binding wounds. The crusade kept coming, relentless, grinding them down through sheer numbers.
Then the eastern gate shuddered.
"Ram!" a scout shouted. "The gate's failing!"
Kaelen turned to Duke Aldren. "Now?"
"Now," Aldren confirmed.
The eastern gate exploded inward, crusaders pouring through the gap with triumphant roars. But they ran directly into Aldren's heavy cavalry, knights on armored horses who'd been waiting in the kill zone behind the gate.
Steel met steel in brutal close combat. The cavalry drove the crusaders back through the gate, then retreated before reinforcements could trap them. The gatehouse remained breached, but the enemy advance was stalled.
"How long can we hold?" Renn asked, binding a wound on his arm.
"Hours," Torven replied. "Maybe until nightfall. Then..." He didn't finish.
Lioran looked around at the defenders—exhausted, wounded, but still fighting. At the walls holding despite the assault. At fire and ice working together, at former enemies united.
They were losing. Slowly but inevitably, the numbers game was catching up with them.
The ember pulsed, offering a solution: unleash everything. Burn them all. Forget control, forget precision. Just burn until nothing remains.
Lioran's hand went to the crystal vial at his belt—Evelina's gift, ice essence to counter the ember if it threatened to consume him.
*Don't die,* her letter had said. *I still intend to visit in spring, and it would be inconvenient if you weren't there.*
He smiled despite everything. Inconvenient. That was such an Evelina word.
"We're not done yet," he said aloud.
"What?" Renn asked.
"We're not done yet," Lioran repeated louder. "They want us broken? Desperate? Good. Desperation makes people creative. Everyone—new plan!"
.....
The Turning Point
Lioran gathered the council quickly in the courtyard, even as battle raged above them.
"We can't win by defending," he said. "They'll grind us down. But what if we stop defending and start attacking?"
"We're outnumbered three to one," Valdis protested.
"Exactly. They don't expect a sortie. They think we're trapped, desperate. So we give them desperate—but not what they expect." Lioran pointed to the map. "Small teams, mix of fire and ice. We target their siege equipment, their command structure, their supplies. Create chaos. Force them to respond instead of just pressing forward."
"That's suicide," Serra said.
"Maybe," Lioran admitted. "But staying here is definitely death. At least this way we're choosing our death, not waiting for it."
"I'll lead the first team," Renn volunteered immediately.
"I'll take the second," Valdis said.
Others stepped forward. Not everyone—many were too wounded, too exhausted. But enough. Twenty volunteers divided into four teams, each with specific targets.
"Hit hard, retreat fast," Lioran instructed. "This isn't about winning battles. It's about buying time and breaking their momentum."
"Time for what?" Elara asked.
Lioran pulled out a small mirror—enchanted, a gift from Bjorn for emergency communication with the Frost Kingdoms. He'd been saving it for exactly this moment.
"Time for reinforcements," he said, activating the mirror. It glowed, connecting across the distance to Glaciheart.
A face appeared in the reflection—not Evelina, but a northern commander.
"Dragon Lord," the commander said. "We weren't expecting contact."
"Things have escalated," Lioran said. "I need you to relay a message to Queen Evelina. Tell her spring has arrived, the crusade is here, and if she was planning to visit, now would be an excellent time."
"My lord, the passes are barely clear—"
"I know. But if she can get here with even a few hundred more soldiers, it might tip the balance. We're holding, but barely."
The commander hesitated, then nodded. "I'll relay your message immediately."
The mirror went dark.
Renn stared at him. "You think she'll come? In time?"
"I think," Lioran said, "that Evelina doesn't make promises she won't keep. And she promised to visit in spring."
"That's a thin thread to hang everything on."
"Then we'd better make it thick," Lioran replied. "Teams—move out. Tear them apart from within. Show Crane that Thornhaven doesn't die quietly."
The teams departed through hidden sally ports, disappearing into the chaos of battle.
And on the walls, defenders who'd seen the volunteers leave fought with renewed vigor, knowing that somewhere in the mayhem below, their comrades were bringing the fight to the enemy.
The sun passed noon, beginning its descent toward evening.
The battle was far from over.
But for the first time since dawn, hope had a pulse.