Part III – The Gate Shuts
The sound of the bells rolled over the fields, steady at first, then faster—panicked. Villagers poured onto the road, dragging carts, carrying crying children, their shouts swallowed by the tolling. The horizon to the east burned a deeper red now; smoke climbed in ribbons, twisting against the dying light.
Luk and Anna ran until their lungs burned. The closer they came to the walls, the louder the noise became—a living thing made of fear and iron. Guards at the ramparts shouted orders. The gates were still open, but the chains had begun to move.
Luk could see the massive counterweights lifting, could hear the heavy groan of metal that meant the portcullis was descending. The crowd surged forward in one desperate push. Someone fell. Someone else screamed. He pulled Anna against him and fought for space, the world shrinking to the sound of bells, breath, and steel.
Ahead, through the chaos, the first line of soldiers struggled to hold the tide back. Beyond them, the city gates yawned wide but narrowing with every heartbeat. Luk lifted his head just in time to see the last ray of sunlight flash across the bars before the shadow swallowed it whole.
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The bells were still ringing when Luk and Anna reached the city gates. The crowd pressed close—hundreds of villagers shouting, pleading, shoving against one another for space. The air stank of sweat, fear, and smoke from the burning fields beyond. Soldiers shouted orders no one could hear.
Luk lifted Anna onto his shoulders so she could breathe. She clutched his hair, her small hands trembling. "I can't see Mama and Papa!"
He rose onto his toes, scanning over heads and wagons, the shifting blur of faces. Then he saw them. Two figures running up the road toward the gate—his parents. His mother's shawl burned at the edge; his father's arm bled freely. The distance between them closed fast, but not fast enough.
"Luk!" his father shouted, voice ragged.
Luk tried to push forward, but the crush of bodies shoved him back. The gate was already descending, its iron teeth grinding against the grooves in the stone. He forced his way between two men, reached the front line just as the heavy bars thudded into place, still half a span above the ground.
For a heartbeat, there was space enough to see through. And through it—his father's soot-blackened face, one side of his beard scorched away. His mother beside him, clinging to his arm. Behind them the fields burned, each gust of wind carrying sparks that flashed against the dusk.
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"Take your sister!" his father cried. "Stay inside the walls!"
Luk pressed his fingers through the gap until they met his father's on the other side. The metal was hot enough to sting. "You're coming too!" he yelled. "You can still make it!"
His father shook his head. "They're closing the second gate. We'll draw them off from the river road. Do you hear me? You keep her safe!"
Anna screamed. "Papa, don't go!"
Their mother knelt, bringing her face level with the bars. She reached through, touching Anna's hair, her cheek, leaving a smudge of ash on her skin. "Sweetheart," she whispered, voice trembling. "Do you remember what I told you when the winter winds came?"
Anna nodded through her tears. "The wind always passes."
"That's right." Her mother smiled faintly, though her eyes were wet. "And when it does, you'll find us again. Look for the river, not the fire."
Guards shouted. Chains above rattled. Commander Delun's voice cut through the panic—cold and final: "Seal it."
Luk's father gripped his wrist hard enough to bruise. "You're the man of the family now. Promise me."
"I promise," Luk whispered.
For a breath, the world fell silent. The bells, the screams, the pounding—all faded. Only the four of them existed, faces framed by iron and smoke. His father smiled, weary but proud. His mother mouthed one word: love.
Then the gate slammed down. Iron met stone with a sound that split the air. Sparks leapt where metal struck metal. The ground shook.
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For a moment, everything stopped. Then someone hit the bars. Another joined. The pounding grew—rage, grief, disbelief made flesh. The guards tried shouting for order, but their voices drowned under the crowd's sobbing.
Delun raised a hand. The soldiers lowered their spears. The noise died, leaving only the hiss of rain starting to fall. His voice carried easily through the stillness. "Anyone beyond the gate is already dead," he said. "You'll do them no honor joining them."
A man spat at his boots. Delun didn't react. He turned and walked toward the shadow of the wall where his command waited. The armor across his shoulders caught the red reflection of the burning plains and glowed like old blood.
Luk stood frozen, one hand pressed against the bars. The metal was cooling now, but he could feel the faint tremor of the gate in his palm—like a dying heartbeat. From beyond the walls came the distant roar of goblins, or maybe the fire itself. He couldn't tell.
Anna buried her face against his side. He held her with one arm, not sure whether to shield her or keep himself upright.
Behind them, Delun's voice barked new orders. "Archers to the wall! Runners—carry word to the inner keep! Civilians to the lower quarter!"
The man's tone was forged of iron, yet something beneath it hinted at weight—a fatigue older than this battle. Luk turned and caught his gaze for a heartbeat. The commander didn't flinch, didn't look away. A curt nod, acknowledgment without comfort, and then he was gone, climbing the steps to the parapet.
The bells changed again—faster now, urgent. Somewhere far beyond the walls, horns answered.
Luk's legs gave out. He sank to his knees, Anna's arms locked around his neck. He didn't cry; not at first. The sound that left him was raw and shapeless, a sound that had no beginning or end. Rain struck the iron bars, hissing where it touched the heat. Drops slid down his face, half rain, half tears.
Above, the sky turned the color of old embers. And for an instant, in the distance where the flames licked the fields, Luk thought he saw two small silhouettes—his parents—standing hand in hand before the fire swallowed them.
He blinked, and they were gone.
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For a long moment, there was nothing but the whisper of rain on iron. The crowd had thinned to scattered shapes hunched beneath the walls, too spent to move, too afraid to speak. Water streamed through the gate's grooves, carrying ash and blood together into small red rivulets that pooled at Luk's knees.
He still knelt where his parents' faces had vanished, Anna pressed against him. The gate did not move; it had become part of the mountain now—cold, immovable, final. Each drop that struck it hissed faintly, as though the metal remembered the heat of fire.
Above them, a horn blew once, low and steady. Commander Delun's voice followed, echoing from the ramparts: "Archers—positions! Torches out on the outer wall! Ready the oil!"
The words rolled like thunder over the rooftops, swallowed by the storm building overhead.
Luk turned his face upward. The rain had begun in earnest, pattering against stone and armor, drumming against his skin until he couldn't tell whether the wet on his cheeks was water or tears. Anna's small hand clung to his sleeve, the only warmth left in the world.
Somewhere higher on the battlements, Delun watched the plains vanish behind sheets of rain. Flames still burned through the downpour—distant, stubborn, dying slow. He didn't look away until the last of them flickered out.
Then he turned toward the city and gave the next order. "Sound the siege drums."
The first slow beat rolled through Westernlight, deep as a heartbeat, shaking dust from the rafters of the nearest towers. In the alleys below, people lifted their heads, listening. It was the sound of a kingdom realizing peace had ended.
And as the rain came harder, washing the blood from the stones, it carried the smoke of burning fields into the heart of the city—straight toward the temple, where a young girl named Chaste began to dream of fire.