Count Eddard remained on the watchtower. Another roar from the monster shook the earth, sending dust cascading from the cracked ceiling onto the maps and docunts scattered across his wooden desk. He glanced toward the city—flas still ravaged the market district, citizens were still fleeing in terror, and black smoke billowed from burning hos.
Then, his gaze shifted south once more.
The ten black specks were drawing closer.
Eddard gripped his crystal pager with white-knuckled intensity. An explosion from the East Gate broke his focus. Leofric’s tanks were still engaged; the monster was still standing. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.
"Focus," he whispered to himself. "One thing at a ti."
Below the tower, chaos reigned on the main road connecting the North Gate to the city center. Civilians scrambled in every direction—so followed the Nightshade’s directions toward the north, while others desperately tried to return to their ruined hos to salvage what was left. The screams of children mingled with the shouts of soldiers attempting to maintain order.
A petite woman with short black hair tied back haphazardly stood atop a pile of rubble. Her na was Veyra. Her black Nightshade Sentinels uniform was grimy with dust and stained with blood—not her own, but the blood of the citizens she had helped rescue. At her hip hung a heavy-caliber Magitech pistol and a short sword with a scabbard marked by nurous scratches.
Veyra wasn’t the strongest fighter in the Nightshade, nor the most senior. But among the mbers stationed in Torshavn today, her voice was the loudest.
"DON’T TURN BACK! DON’T LOOK BEHIND YOU!" she scread, her voice piercing through the cacophony. She pointed urgently toward the North Gate. "KEEP MOVING! FOLLOW THE BLUE FLAGS!"
An elderly man with a face full of panic stumbled to a halt before her. "But my house—"
"IS GONE!" Veyra cut him off bluntly. "You’re still alive. That’s what matters. Now, move!"
The man blinked, stunned for a second, before nodding and resuming his flight.
Veyra took a sharp breath, wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. Her eyes scanned the crowd. In the distance, she spotted three other Nightshade mbers—Kendrick, a lanky man with glasses who always carried maps; Sera, a short-haired blonde specializing in close-quarters combat; and Orin, a muscular youth who spoke little but always stood at the vanguard. They were currently guiding a group trapped in a narrow alley.
Veyra waved her hand. Kendrick saw her and gave a quick thumbs-up—everything was still "under control."
But Veyra knew that in a situation like this, "control" was nothing more than an illusion.
At the East Gate, the monster remained a towering presence.
Standing fifteen tis the height of an adult man, it resembled a walking glacier.
Leofric stood in the hatch of his command tank—a Wolf-Tusk with a severely dented right hull. He peered through his binoculars, his face sared with soot, his eyes sharp.
"Ammunition status?" he asked Gideon via the internal radio.
Gideon’s voice was characteristically flat, but a hint of tension bled through. "Main cannon has twelve shells left. Rockets are depleted. Machine guns are still operational, but they’re useless against that hide."
"Conserve the shells. Do not fire unless you have a clear shot at a weak point."
"Weak point?" Gideon almost laughed. "That thing doesn’t have one."
"Every monster has a weak point." Leofric lowered his binoculars. "We just haven’t found it yet."
In the sky, nine Sky-Hunters circled like hawks that had lost their prey. Kaelen reported from the lead cockpit: "Rocket ammunition is completely exhausted. Only light machine guns remain. Ineffective against the ice."
Leofric gripped the radio. "Fall back. Maintain distance. I don’t want any casualties."
"Understood."
The Sky-Hunters began to pull away, ascending to a safer altitude. From above, they could see the entirety of Torshavn—the fires in the market, the river of citizens flowing north, and to the south...
The Sky-Hunter pilot squinted. Sothing was moving.
"Commander Leofric," the voice crackled over the radio. "Movent in the south. Ten individuals. Not civilians."
Leofric raised his binoculars again, panning toward the southern horizon. Ten small dots were walking slowly, unhurried.
"Uniforms?"
"Too far to be certain. But their movent... it’s disciplined. Highly trained."
Leofric lowered the binoculars. "That’s an intel matter. We focus on the monster."
On the southern hill, five hundred ters from the ruined city gate, Sir Roni raised his right hand.
The nine knights behind him halted in perfect unison.
They stood atop a small ridge—a vantage point that offered a full view of the dying city of Torshavn. From here, they saw it all.
Sir Roni’s eyes were fixed on the carnage. His greatsword was strapped to his back, its hilt wrapped in black leather rising above his shoulder. His dark steel armor glinted despite the long journey. On his chest, the emblem of Highgarden—a shield with two crossed swords—was ticulously stitched in silver thread onto the green fabric.
A young knight behind him—Sir Alden—whose face was still clean and unscarred, spoke up. "Why are we stopping, Sir? The city is open."
Sir Roni did not look back. "We wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Until they are exhausted. Or until the monster dies. Whichever cos first."
Sir Alden opened his mouth to ask more, but an older knight beside him placed a hand on his shoulder. "You heard Sir Roni. We wait."
Alden fell silent.
And so, they waited.
Behind them, the southern wind blew, carrying the scent of dry earth and wild grass. Sir Roni stood as still as a statue. There was no boredom in his face, no impatience. Only... the wait.
He didn’t care about the monster. He didn’t care about the dying citizens. He was there for one purpose: to deliver Duke Alistair’s ssage. And that ssage would only be delivered at the precise mont it would hurt the most.
In Iron Hearth, night had fallen.
Roland sat in his study, surrounded by neatly organized maps and reports. The crystal lamp on the ceiling glowed dimly, casting long shadows against the stone walls. In the corner of his desk, the crystal pager rang.
He picked it up.
"Lord Roland." It was a mber of the Ghost Squad stationed in the south. The voice was calm, but the urgency was palpable. "There has been a developnt."
"The monster?"
"The monster is still active. Leofric’s tanks are retreating. Sky-Hunters are out of ammunition." A brief pause. "But there is sothing else."
Roland straightened his back. "Go on."
"Highgarden forces. Ten n. Official uniforms, clear insignia. They have stopped on the southern hill, roughly five hundred ters from the city gate. They are stationary."
Roland was silent.
He tapped his finger on the desk—one, two, three. He stared at the map on the wall, specifically the small dot labeled Torshavn.
"Only ten n?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"They aren’t an invasion force." Roland leaned back, his voice low, speaking more to himself than the operative. "They are ard observers. Or... provocateurs."
"Orders, My Lord?"
Roland looked at the map again. Torshavn in the south. Iron Hearth in the north. And in between, the vast, empty routes that could be exploited at any mont.
"Ignore them," he said finally. "Focus on the monster. Do not be baited. Report every change—position, movent, anything."
"Understood, My Lord."
Roland deactivated the pager and set it down. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Alistair.
The na appeared uninvited in his mind.
He stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out. There was soone he needed to see.
Riven was in the strategy room—Room 302—when Roland entered.
The room was dark, illuminated only by a crystal lamp over a large table displaying a map of the Northreach territory. Riven stood before it, hands behind his back, staring at the red markers on the southern border.
Roland closed the door. "Ghost Squad just reported in."
Riven didn’t turn. "What is it?"
"Ten n in Highgarden uniforms. On the southern hill of Torshavn. Just watching."
Riven was silent for a mont before nodding slowly, as if he had expected this.
"They want us to take the bait," Riven said, his voice heavy. "If we send reinforcents south, our northern defenses are weakened. If we attack them first, they have an excuse to claim we started the war."
Roland stepped up beside his brother. "My thoughts exactly."
"We focus. One problem at a ti. The monster first, then them." Riven finally turned to look at Roland.
Roland nodded. "I’ve ordered the Ghost Squad not to engage or provoke them."
"Good." Riven pulled a pager from his pocket. "I’ll order Leofric directly. Those in the field are the most vulnerable to provocation."
He keyed the device. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argunt.
"Leofric. This is Riven. Focus on the monster. Do not engage the Highgarden forces unless they strike first. They want us provoked. Do not give them what they want. Understood?"
Through the radio, amidst the sound of explosions, Leofric replied: "Understood."
Riven turned the pager off. "Alistair is making his move."
Roland crossed his arms. "He’s testing us. He wants to see how fast we react. How emotional we are."
"And we won’t give him the answer he’s looking for."
They stood in silence, staring at the sa map, thinking the sa thoughts. In the south, their city was under siege by a monster and watched by an enemy. In the north, the Iron Empire was quietly rebuilding its strength. And in the center of it all, one man was dancing on a wire—Alistair Solari.
"We need more eyes in the south," Roland said finally. "Ghost Squad isn’t enough."
Riven nodded. "I’ll arrange it. You focus on communication with Count Eddard. Ensure he doesn’t panic."
"He won’t." Roland turned toward the door. "He’s a Count. He knows his duty."
Count Eddard didn’t panic.
But his hands were still shaking.
He stood on the watchtower, looking south. The ten dots were still there, unmoving. To the east, the monster still rampaged, though the thunder of cannons had grown sparse—a sign that Leofric was conserving his shells.
The pager in his hand buzzed. A ssage from Iron Hearth.
Ignore Highgarden forces. Focus on monster. Do not be baited.
Eddard read the ssage twice. He let out a long breath—a mixture of relief and lingering dread.
He looked south again. The ten dots remained.
"Fine," he muttered to himself. "Let them watch. We deal with the monster first."
He picked up the pager and contacted the Nightshade commander on the ground—Veyra.
"Speed up the evacuation. We must minimize casualties."
Veyra’s voice sounded hoarse but resolute. "Understood, Your Grace. We’ve directed the majority to the North Gate. But people are still trapped in the market district."
"Send a team. Leave no one behind."
"Understood."
Eddard deactivated the pager. He looked east, toward the monster. Leofric’s tanks had begun firing again—slower this ti, more calculated. As if they were aiming for sothing specific.
Did they find a weakness? he wondered. Or are they just trying their luck?
He didn’t know. But for the first ti since morning, a flicker of hope ignited in his chest.
At the East Gate, the monster was still standing, but its movents had slowed. Its roars grew less frequent. The ice on its body began to show cracks that didn’t imdiately heal—especially near the neck, where Veyra’s Nightshade team had spotted a gap from below.
On the southern hill, Sir Roni remained in the sa spot. The night wind whipped his cloak. Behind him, the knights were growing restless—not out of fear, but out of boredom.
"How much longer, Sir?" Sir Alden asked.
Sir Roni did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the city as it grew dark, illuminated only by the fires of burning buildings.
He waited.
In Iron Hearth, Roland stood by the window of his study, looking south. In his hand was a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. He didn’t drink. He just watched.
"The Mirror Protocol," he murmured softly—a term he and Riven had secretly agreed upon. Let the enemy see only their own reflection. Do not move. Do not react. Until they have no idea what we are thinking.
He set the cup down.
"Alistair," he whispered. "You are testing us. But you’ve forgotten one thing."
He switched off the lights in his room.
"We’ve been tested since day one."
In Torshavn, Count Eddard still stood on the watchtower.
His hands were no longer shaking.
He looked south, at the ten dots still there. Then north, at the monster that was beginning to tire. Then at the sky, which was growing dark.
He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But for tonight, they were still standing.
And that was enough.
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