The sun fell like a burning iron over the road west of Rocciaguarda, where the cracked earth splintered under the weight of hooves and sweat trickled down the temples of men and women as if their very skin was trying to escape the heat. Dust rose with every step of the mounts, dancing in the thick air like golden spectres from ancient wars.
Elizaveta rode at the front as if she did not feel the heat – or perhaps she simply ignored it. Her face, tanned by the march and hardened by disdain, remained impassive. Her eyes, icy even under the scorching sky, swept across the horizon. Her coat was strapped to the saddle; the heat made wearing furs a luxury for fools.
Behind her came the Winter Wolves, also tanned, covered in dust, unshaven, their faces marked by long marches. Still, they talked, laughed, placed bets – for summer, like war, had not yet killed them.
– This'll end faster than it began – said Gregor, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. – Five ducats say we won't even need to make camp twice.
– I'll make it six that the Silvanians arrive only after the last banner's been burned – replied Dário, waving an improvised leather fan, a half-smile on his lips. – And perhaps they'll bring wine, if it hasn't evaporated along the way.
The laughter echoed along the road – dry, worn, but sincere.
In the distance, however, a patrol of the Wolves was returning. It was Lieutenant Sava, whose face revealed more than his voice ever would. They rode straight towards Elizaveta, who remained seated in her saddle, observing them. A half-open wineskin rested beside her, but she didn't seem to have touched it.
– They're coming – said Sava bluntly. – An army. Twelve thousand soldiers, according to our eyes and the dust they raise. They march under black banners with a silver anvil and hammer. It's Lucien Darcos leading them.
A murmur passed through the Wolves like a muffled thunderclap. The name carried weight. Darcos was no ordinary general. He was the blade of the Iron Dominion, the scourge of revolts, the man who cleansed cities with fire and broken oaths. And if that wasn't enough… there were other means.
– They've brought the militia from Dragospire – continued Rurik, one of Elizaveta's sergeants, his eyes avoiding hers. – Four thousand, maybe a bit more. Black uniforms, engraved steel helmets. Soldiers, but not like the others. They answer to one name: Draven Dragomir.
Silence. That name made even the dust pause. Draven, the war dog of Dragospire, heir to a legacy of iron, commander of the walls where so many armies had been crushed. They said he was born inside the fortress, in a windowless room, and that his voice never rose above the tone required to order an execution.
The Wolves exchanged glances, some doing the maths: twelve thousand against how many? Two thousand? Less? The road offered no shelter, and the surrounding hills and forests were hard for horses to cross – it was like standing in a field of wheat awaiting the scythe.
But Elizaveta didn't move. Not a muscle in her face betrayed emotion – no fear, no surprise. She merely looked at the two men, as if they had just reported the weather forecast.
– Anything else? – she asked, with the calm voice of one who decides fates in the space of a breath.
Sava hesitated. Rurik stared at the ground.
– It's not certain yet… – said Sava, – but the people we met along the road, smugglers and innkeepers, they all say the same. There's movement in Ferralia. Troops. Lots of them.
– How many? – asked Elizaveta, lifting her gaze slowly.
– Word is twenty thousand soldiers. Maybe more. Heading south.
– Led by whom?
– Either the High Lord Magno Ferroforte himself… or his son, Marshal Victor. No one knows for sure. But the rumours are on everyone's lips: they're marching because there's been movement from the Green League near the Torre di Ferro.
In the distance, a crow cawed. No one laughed. No one spoke. This wasn't just an army – it was a war machine rolling south. And the Green League, that alliance thought unlikely, was also stirring.
Gregor ran a hand through his beard.
– If that's true… this isn't just Dragospire. It's the widening of the war. One that can't be fought with two thousand mercenaries.
– It's not a war we want to fight in the middle of nowhere – said Dário, grim. – Not alone.
Elizaveta didn't respond immediately. She stood still, like a statue worn down by the wind.
– We march to Rocciaguarda. Now.
Gregor raised an eyebrow.
– We turn our backs?
– We warn Dante's rebels – said Elizaveta. – They need to know what's coming.
The Wolves saw the grey bastions of Rocciaguarda for the first time, rising like the teeth of a sleeping giant, after a fast, brutal, and relentless march.
Rocciaguarda was no romantic citadel of tall towers and fluttering banners. It was a colossus of stone and geometry, built with the sole purpose of withstanding siege and returning fire with interest. The star-shaped outline of its layout sprawled across a fortified plateau, with dry moats dug by iron and masonry, angled bastions covered in earthworks where artillery could rotate with ease. Gunports could be seen along the curtain walls, already occupied by rusted but functional pieces.
The inner barracks, visible through the half-open gates, could house up to five thousand soldiers. But for now, the garrison was more hope than strength. Men and women in civilian clothes handled old muskets, trained by shouting sergeants who barely knew how to form a line.
At the centre of the courtyard, on an improvised platform, stood Dante Ferroso. He wore his Ferralian uniform, a memory of his past and a message for Ferralia's future. His voice echoed, firm, instructing a new wave of recruits – skinny boys and girls and hardened old men, all with eyes of those who had lost too much to turn back.
Elizaveta dismounted slowly. The Wolves stood behind her, aligned like a compact shadow, covered in dust and sweat, yet still dangerously silent. They observed the walls and the rebels with a mixture of disdain and expectation. Most had seen fortresses fall with less resistance than a wheat field, and they knew that stone alone does not sustain a rebellion.
Gregor Malhov looked around, whistling.
– Half his soldiers will run at the first enemy volley.
Dário Solvani, more restrained, merely adjusted his gloves.
– But the walls… those don't run.
Elizaveta did not respond. She climbed the stairs to the inner platform, where Dante stood, interrupting the training by her presence alone.
– Elizaveta Volkova, commander of the Winter Wolves – she said, with a voice that conveyed authority, as if every word carried the weight of contracts and corpses. – We are here under contract with the Green League of Silvania.
Dante paused for a moment. He did not bow, nor did he extend his hand – but his eyes, tired, yet sharp, measured her from head to toe with the precision of a man who had seen too much and lost even more. Then he nodded, respectfully.
– Your presence… and that of your Wolves… is welcome, commander. We have enough space in the barracks for your soldiers. And your horses can use the second courtyard. There are stables, hay, and little that cannot be improvised.
Elizaveta did not smile.
– Space is not the problem I've come to speak of – she said. – The problem is that, from what I've seen out there, you don't have enough soldiers for what's coming.
Dante remained motionless, as if her words were stones thrown at a wall already cracked.
– You're talking about Darcos.
– I'm talking about twelve thousand soldiers, Dante, with four thousand from the Dragospire militia under Draven Dragomir. And now rumours of twenty thousand coming from Ferrumia, perhaps under Ferroforte himself. And you have… what? Five thousand? Maybe less, if we don't count those who haven't yet come of age?
For a moment, everything stopped. The shouts of training became a distorted echo in the background. Dante took his time to respond. The sun was lowering in the sky, painting the fortress walls in dull gold, as if the stone itself knew it was about to be tested.
– This news you bring… I expected to hear something like it from my own scouts. Yes, you're right, I don't have enough strength to face Darcos at this moment, but all those who joined me will fight to their last breath. Ferralia has already taken everything from them. Now they just wait for a chance to return the favour. It doesn't matter how many they are, they'll have to fight or die all the same.
Dante turned to the courtyard and called for Iago, who joined them quickly.
– Iago, tell me, what do we have in the stores?
– We have supplies for a two-week siege, maybe three if we ration flour and salted meat. Water-wise we're alright… depending on whether the well doesn't dry up. As for munitions, we have enough to respond to all the fire Ferralia throws at us at least twice. Maybe three times.
– Try to hold out as long as you can – said Elizaveta, her voice cutting the air like a sharp blade. – Elias Ventresca is crossing the mountain trail at this very moment. He's bringing reinforcements, or so we hoped when he departed. But the path is treacherous, and I don't know how long it will take him to arrive. If he's still alive.
Gregor growled under his breath.
– Praying for reinforcements doesn't fill casks or clean musket barrels.
– Not all battles are won with faith – retorted Elizaveta, – but none are won without time. And now, time is all we have left.
– Time is everything – said Dante, in a tone so low Elizaveta could barely hear him. – Elizaveta, I ask you and your Wolves to find Elias and, with him, help us lift the siege against Lucien Darcos's damned twelve thousand.
Dante turned his back without another word. He climbed to the wall ramparts and looked over the training yard, where soldiers and volunteers were already gathering. He raised his voice, strong:
– Ferralia still has not forgiven us. A siege is near. But these walls are ours. When Darcos's dogs come knocking at our door, we will show them that Rocciaguarda neither falls nor surrenders!
The crowd responded with scattered cries – not of glory, but of raw determination, like those who had already chosen to die rather than run.
By the end of Dante's speech, Elizaveta was already mounting her horse and her Wolves were preparing to leave the fortress. Dário adjusted the straps of his gloves. At his side, Gregor loomed like a boulder atop his war beast.
– Do you really think the Silvanians will come? – asked Dário, without looking at anyone. – Or are we going to end up dying over a contract signed by turncoats?
Gregor let out a dry, humourless laugh.
– I reckon Lucien Darcos himself is more likely to help Dante's rebels than the Green League is.