Inside the fortress of Dara, dawn did not bring light.
It brought relief.
Relief… and an incredulous silence.
All through the night, the Empire's drums had pounded like a demonic heart.
Now they were silent.
And then, slowly—almost timidly at first—
cheers began to rise along the walls.
A few soldiers shouted from the battlements.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
A collective roar, rough and hoarse, frayed by exhaustion.
"We're alive!""We're still alive!""One more night! One more night!"
The laughter was nervous, closer to tears than joy.
But it was real.
They had held.
The Empire had pulled back.
And one more night meant the Plan was still in motion.
The nobles gathered quickly in the inner courtyard. Scouts confirmed what everyone had hoped to hear:
"The imperials have withdrawn two kilometers to reorganize."
A collective breath left the commanders.
Count Edgard spoke, his voice low and steady.
"Our objective is not to defeat them here. It is to delay them."
They all knew it.They all accepted it.
Dara was a wall of flesh and stone—
a sacrifice, an anchor, an obstacle meant to endure just long enough.
Long enough for something legendary to rise in the north along the new defensive route:
Fortress Albaterra—the most ambitious project the Kingdom had undertaken in centuries.
Larger.Stronger.Layered with more magical artifacts than any royal construction before it.
Two concentric walls.Arcane traps lining the corridors between them.Mana-drain systems.Resonance barriers.And a central magical core capable of sustaining hundreds of mages at once.
Beyond that, Andrew—the Crown Prince—had mobilized:
Eight thousand new combatants.
Battle-hardened mercenaries.Young recruits.Veterans from the eastern front.Royal guards.
All assembled under the direct command of Queen Adelaine.
Only one thing was missing:
Time.
And time had to be purchased with blood.
In the kitchens, entire cauldrons were distributed without rationing.
Hot soup.Bread.Mana-rich monster meat.
A luxury in the middle of hell.
The soldiers devoured it as if it were a royal feast.
"They should build Duke Douglas an altar," one said through muffled laughter.
"He killed more mages in one night than we did in a week," another replied.
"Damn right. We're still here because of him."
The defensive mages lay on blankets, utterly spent. Some had bled from the nose during the night; others had collapsed unconscious after sustaining the seals for too long.
Yet when they saw the soldiers celebrating, they smiled with quiet pride.
Last night's victory was not merely military.
It was psychological.
For the first time in this war—
the Empire had felt fear.
The southern sector of Dara, where the Empire had struck, was nearly unrecognizable.
The three breach columns had carved deep fractures into the stone. Blocks had shifted. Scars of arcane fire still smoldered.
Kingdom engineers measured the damage.
"If they charge again with their siege conjurers… the wall will fall."
"How long do we have?" a lieutenant asked.
"Days… if the gods are generous."
"And if they aren't?"
"Hours."
The shadow of the Empire hung over them like a blade suspended by a thread.
And yet—
despite everything—
laughter echoed through the corridors.
Soldiers cleaned their weapons with proud, deliberate gestures.
Mages slowly replenished their mana.
Sentinels watched the horizon with defiant eyes.
Because surviving one more night there—
in Dara—
was a victory worth celebrating.