Part X – The Burning Bridge
Part X-C: The Fall
The fires burned through the night, eating what remained of the bridge until only the skeleton of its iron frame jutted from the river like black ribs. The air smelled of wet ash and burnt leather. Even the stars seemed dimmer, hidden behind a haze that refused to lift.
Luk sat in the mud near the river's edge, his cloak draped around Anna. She had stopped shaking but hadn't spoken since Valen pulled them from the water. Her small hands clutched the corner of the cloak as if letting go would pull her back into the river.
He hadn't the heart to tell her that, in a way, it already had.
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On the far bank, soldiers moved like ghosts through the smoke, gathering what the fire had left. Delun's voice carried from somewhere upriver, giving terse commands: count the wounded, burn the rest, make camp. His words were iron, not comfort. No one answered him.
Luk watched them until his eyes blurred. He had no sense of how long he'd been sitting there. The heat from the fires was gone, replaced by a damp chill that clung to his bones. Each breath came out white in the cold. The river murmured beside him, low and steady, as if mocking the heartbeat it had nearly taken from him.
Behind him, Valen approached—silent, his armor still steaming from the earlier fight. He crouched down beside them, sword tip planted in the dirt. The polished metal had warped from heat; it looked softer now, almost human.
"Commander says we move at dawn," Valen said. His voice was quiet, but not gentle. "South, toward the marsh road. Fewer crossings there."
Luk didn't look up. "What about the ones on the other side?"
Valen's jaw tightened. "They didn't make it."
He said it flatly, like an order already carried out. But Luk saw the tremor in the man's hand when he sheathed his sword.
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Anna stirred. "Papa?" Her voice was raw, a whisper scoured by smoke.
Luk froze. The word hit him harder than any blow. He swallowed and pulled her closer. "Sleep," he said softly. "It's almost morning."
She didn't answer, but after a while, her breathing slowed. The faint rhythm of it was the only sound he trusted.
Valen rose to his feet, staring out over the water. "You were brave, boy. You kept her alive."
Luk's throat burned. "And everyone else died."
The knight didn't argue. "That's what war takes."
He started to walk away, then paused. "Your parents—what were their names?"
Luk hesitated. "I don't know if saying them helps."
"It does," Valen said quietly. "Sometimes. For a while."
Luk looked at the fire's reflection on the river, the way it wavered and broke apart. "Maren and Talis," he said at last. "From the lower farms."
Valen nodded once. "Then we'll remember them in the count."
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The night wind rose, carrying with it the faint sound of shifting wood—something cracking beneath the surface of the river. Luk turned his head, but saw nothing except the rippling glow of half-dead embers floating downstream. He told himself it was just the current tugging at what was left of the bridge.
Across the camp, Delun's soldiers built a low wall of stones and timber for the wounded. The commander himself stood apart, looking toward the dark ridge beyond the river where the goblins had vanished. His armor caught the light now and then—a dull gleam, like the last flicker of a dying star.
"Valen," Delun called out, voice roughened by smoke. "See that the fireline holds until dawn. If they cross again, burn what's left of the river."
Valen gave a sharp nod and moved off without a word.
Luk stared after him. He didn't understand how men could keep standing after nights like this, how they could talk about tactics when the ground still smelled of blood and ruin. But then, maybe that was what being a soldier meant—learning to keep walking through what should have ended you.
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Dawn came quietly, gray and slow. The smoke thinned, revealing the ruined span of the bridge for the first time in daylight. From here, it looked almost peaceful—the river running around it like a bandage covering a wound.
Anna woke shivering, her voice hoarse. "Where are we going?"
"South," Luk said. "With them."
"To find Mama and Papa?"
He didn't answer. After a moment, she turned her face into his chest and began to cry soundlessly. He held her tighter, though his own eyes stayed dry. The tears had burned out of him in the fire.
Valen returned as the first light broke over the hills. He handed Luk a strip of cloth—a soldier's bandage. "For your leg," he said. "It's bleeding again."
Luk hadn't noticed until then. His calf throbbed, the wound from the goblin's claws already swollen and dark around the edges. He tore a piece from his cloak and wrapped it tight, pretending it didn't hurt.
Valen watched, then knelt and tied the knot for him. "Don't let it fester," he said. "The marshes aren't kind to the wounded."
Luk met his eyes. "Will we be safe there?"
The knight looked out toward the river once more. The water was calm now, carrying its dead quietly toward the sea. "There's no such place anymore," he said. "But we keep moving. That's the closest thing we've got."
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When they finally broke camp, the sun had risen pale and distant through the smoke. The caravan of survivors moved in silence along the riverbank, their shadows long on the wet earth. Luk carried Anna on his back, her arms around his neck, her breath warm against his ear.
He didn't look back at the river. But he could feel it behind him—the steady, unseen current tugging at the memory of everything they'd left there.
As they reached the hill, the wind shifted again, carrying the faintest echo from far below: a deep, hollow sound, almost like a breath drawn through iron.
He told himself it was nothing. Just the river, remembering the fire.
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Archivist's Note – The Siege Years
Excerpt from the Military Records of the Lionroar Guild, translated and annotated by the Archivist Council.
For ten years after the Gatefall, Westernlight waged war not only with the Eastbarren hordes but with famine, fever, and itself.
Commanders turned on kings. Guilds turned on one another.
The Rasclaw mercenaries of the Southpaws cut the trade routes, and the Elvenhelm envoys vanished in a night storm that left no survivors.
By the end of the siege, there was no line between soldier and civilian — only survivors and the things that hunted them.
And yet, every account agrees on one thing:
The fire in the plains burned for seven years before it finally died.
When it did, the rain that fell turned the rivers black.
— Archivist Eryndor Venn, Fifth Record of Westernlight
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