The night breeze tousled Gareth's hair as he stood before the eastern Arsenal, with his boots firmly planted in the dirt that had turned to mud from his men's relentless advance. The distant glow of the blood wards cast an eerie red hue over the city, reminiscent of the embers of a dying fire that refused to extinguish. Lady Amelia’s mages were currently testing them—not to destroy them, as the backlash was too dangerous to risk, but to study them. Gareth’s jaw tightened as he observed the citadel rise in the distance, its jagged silhouette outlined by the infernal light.

  The orders from Leonard had been clear: encircle the citadel and apply pressure from all sides. The remaining Loyalists had spread themselves too thin to repel a full assault, and it was up to Gareth to ensure they couldn’t regroup. But clarity in orders didn’t mean simplicity in execution. The Loyalists fought like animals backed into a corner—desperate, ruthless, and without regard for their own lives.

  The propaganda Pollus had spread among the troops made it seem like surrendering would mean rape and torture. No one would go quietly if they thought that fate awaited them.

  “General, the defenses are holding,” a soldier reported, weary but steady—that was something he had yet to get used to. Leonard’s men, when in his vicinity, never faltered, no matter how ugly the fighting got. “Our forces are scaling the sides, but the Loyalists have barricaded the upper levels. It’s slow going.”

  Gareth nodded. “Keep the pressure constant. They will weaken, and I want us ready to exploit it.”

  The soldier saluted and disappeared into the chaos, leaving Gareth alone to survey the battlefield. He adjusted the grip on his spear, finding the familiar weight to be a comforting anchor in the madness around him. Hassel had nothing on the hellscape that was Volten, and yet his instincts screamed that he shouldn’t lower his guard, that things were not as easy as they seemed.

  But the wards could not hold forever. Nothing powered by human lives was infinite, and Gareth knew Leonard was counting on that inevitability. What concerned him more was the cost of waiting them out. The fighting at the bases outside the wards had already turned into a bloodbath, with losses mounting on both sides. Gareth didn’t need to be told that every soldier lost now would weaken their final push against the citadel.

  He’ll have to resurrect the men in mass, but I don’t know how often he can do that. Something tells me overturning the natural order doesn’t come without cost.

  “Signal the second wave,” he ordered once he was satisfied with his general assessment. A runner darted off, and moments later, a horn’s low, mournful note echoed through the streets. Fresh troops surged forward. Gareth turned his attention to the buildings that loomed next to the blood wards, where another battle raged.

  The Revolutionary forces had managed to spill into some of the structures, and he could see their banners fluttering defiantly above the battlements. But progress through the labyrinthine interiors was agonizingly slow. The Loyalists fought for every corridor, every stairwell, turning even the most innocuous of spaces into killing fields. It was a slaughter, the floors slick with blood and littered with the broken remains of soldiers who had dared to advance too quickly.

  “Hold your positions!” a voice roared from a rooftop above, where a Revolutionary officer directed fire onto the streets below. Bullets and spells rained down on the Loyalists, who scrambled to regroup.

  Gareth watched the scene unfold with a detached intensity, cataloging the ebb and flow of the battle. He had done his part, ensuring their foothold was secure, and he had to preserve his strength for when it was needed.

  Twelve more men died than would have if he had taken the field. It was a minor sacrifice, but it still pained him.

  When the base was finally cleared of Loyalist forces, Gareth made sure to walk around the ranks, showing that he hadn’t abandoned them and granting the men a second wind. It wasn’t necessary, given that they were still under Leonard’s buff, but it made him feel better.

  “General,” a young officer approached, saluting crisply. “The southern attack reports success. They’ve secured the bases and are fortifying positions around the citadel.”

  Gareth straightened. “Good. But if there are pockets left, they’ll need more than walls to keep them safe. Make sure they double the guard rotation. I’ll leave to update the Grand Marshal on our progress.”

  The officer nodded and hurried away, leaving Gareth alone once again. He took one final glance at the glowing wards before turning and striding back toward the southern command post.

  Leonard stood at the center of the southern encampment, his armor gleaming in the firelight. Deep in conversation with a group of officers—while the rest of the war council pored over a map behind them—he radiated a sense of determination that seemed to steady the nerves of everyone around him. When he arrived, Leonard turned and nodded in approval.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “Gareth,” Leonard said warmly. “Your timing is impeccable. I trust the eastern flank is secure?”

  Gareth nodded. “The Loyalists won’t be regrouping anytime soon. We’ve taken the bases and pushed them back into the citadel. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing.

  Leonard’s gaze sharpened. “But?”

  “The blood wards,” Gareth continued. “Seem to be holding well under the tests, and they will for some time. Even if the mages manage to somehow drain them without causing a cascade, the cost of waiting them out will be too high. We’re losing men with every engagement, and the citadel is still untouchable.”

  Leonard’s expression darkened, and he nodded as if that confirmed something. “I know. But there’s no other option. We can’t risk breaking the wards by force—it would destroy the city. And the shamans can’t get close enough with so many soldiers still left to fight.”

  “Then we need another option,” Gareth said, infusing his words with the necessary gravitas to capture everyone’s attention. “I propose we ask for a parlay.”

  The officers fell silent. Leonard himself stared at Gareth with an unreadable expression.

  “You want to negotiate?” Leonard asked, incredulous.

  “Not negotiate,” Gareth clarified. “We won’t make concessions to Pollus. However, we need to force him to reveal his hand. A parlay might give us the chance to assess his position, his resources, and, most importantly, his state of mind. We need to understand what we’re dealing with.”

  Opposite Gareth, Oliver stood with his arms crossed, flushed red with frustration. “This is madness,” he growled. “You’re suggesting we give Pollus time. Time to regroup, to strengthen those damned wards, to plan his next move. You know he won’t surrender. Anything less than a complete and relentless assault will just play into his hands!”

  Gareth didn’t show any unease, meeting Oliver’s glare without flinching. It’d be a cold day in hell before a wet-behind-the-ears teenager could intimidate him, no matter how talented. “I know Pollus better than most. I served with him at the Death Pass,” he replied, keeping his tone measured. “He’s arrogant, yes, and unlikely to surrender outright. But I don’t expect him to hand over the citadel on a silver platter. This is about understanding the blood wards. I’m guessing that the tests revealed what we already knew—that they will hold against anything but a full-on attack from our strongest elites, which would obliterate the city. We need another path forward.”

  Oliver scoffed, slamming a hand down on the edge of the table. “We already know enough about those monstrosities. They’re powered by human lives—innocents Pollus has sacrificed to keep himself safe. What more is there to know?”

  “The how,” Gareth shot back, his voice rising slightly. “We need to know how they function in detail. How they’re maintained, how they’re manipulated. The orc shamans are confident they can purify the damaged spirits trapped within the wards, but the protections around them are still formidable. Seeing the wards being opened and closed—even briefly—could give them the insight they need to bring them down more quickly.”

  “Or it could give Pollus a chance to trap us,” Oliver retorted. “You’re playing with fire.”

  “And fire is what we need,” Gareth countered. “We’re running out of time. Fighting our way through the citadel isn’t an option. Every delay Pollus can enforce strengthens his position and brings the Royal Army closer to us. We need to act decisively, yes, but we must also act intelligently.”

  Amelia leaned forward, narrowing her purple eyes as she studied him. “You’re suggesting we use the parlay as reconnaissance,” she probed. “To gather information under the guise of diplomacy.” Everyone knew she wasn’t a stranger to such methods, but seeing it proposed by a Knight of the Realm was still unusual—at least from one who took their oaths seriously.

  Gareth nodded. “Exactly. Pollus won’t trust us any more than we trust him. He’s arrogant, but he’s not a fool. He’ll see this as an opportunity to stall us—but we’ll use that same opportunity to learn.”

  Leonard, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “And what if Pollus doesn’t take the bait? What if he refuses the parlay, or worse, uses it to launch a counterstrike while we focus our forces?”

  “Then we’ll be no worse off than we are now,” Gareth replied. “If he refuses, it proves he’s afraid we’ll uncover something, and it was the right path. If he strikes, he exposes himself to retaliation while his forces are still boxed in. Either way, we gain something.”

  The room fell into a tense silence. Leonard’s gaze drifted to the map, tapping his fingers lightly against the hilt of his sword. Finally, he looked up with resolve in his eyes. “You have my support, Gareth. But this has to be done well. One misstep and Pollus will make us pay.”

  Amelia nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Agreed. I don’t like the risk, but the potential gain outweighs it. The blood wards are just that dangerous.”

  Neer grunted her assent, and David, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with barely contained anger, but he gave a sharp nod. “Fine. But if this blows up in our faces, I’ll make sure everyone knows who suggested it.”

  Gareth inclined his head. “Noted.”

  The ride to the citadel’s main gate was uneventful yet filled with anticipation. Gareth sat tall in the saddle, with his cloak billowing behind him, leading a small delegation of riders to the edge of the blood wards. The air grew heavier as they approached, and the oppressive weight of the sacrificial protections pressed upon their senses. The wards shimmered faintly, pulsing their crimson light like a heartbeat. They were slowly fading from sight now that the probing strikes had ceased, but it would take some time for them to disappear, and Gareth would get to enjoy the bloody show in the meantime.

  “Hold here,” Gareth commanded, raising a hand. The riders behind him reined in their horses, forming a defensive semicircle. He dismounted, leaving his spear strapped to his back as he approached the wards alone. The flickering light cast sharp shadows, illuminating his features in stark relief and revealing even sharper cheekbones than during his lowest moment before the revolution.

  He halted a few paces from the barrier, his voice resonating with authority. “To those inside the citadel: I bring an offer of parley. Two hours from now, we will await your response. If you have the courage to meet, we will guarantee safe passage for your delegation. If not, then let it be known that the choice to die was yours.”

  For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, faintly, a figure appeared on the ramparts. Gareth couldn’t make out the features, but he could feel their appraising gaze. His hand itched to reach for his spear, but he held his ground.

  The figure remained silent. Instead, he nodded, acknowledging Gareth’s words. He looked for any sign of movement, any indication that an attack was imminent. But none came.

  Satisfied, Gareth turned on his heel and mounted his horse with practiced ease. “We’ll return to the southern command,” he said to his riders. “In two hours, if they don’t arrive, we continue as planned.”