The explosion is cataclysmic.

  A roaring burst of fire erupts outward in every direction, the air itself igniting as a shockwave flattens the underbrush. A plume of searing orange and white climbs skyward, lighting the morning sky. The stone wall, already weakened and cracked, shatters. Blocks of masonry are hurled like slingstones across the field, some smashing into the base of nearby trees, others crashing down amid the battlefront.

  The blast ripples through the fort’s southern side, incinerating men and wood and spider alike. One of the watchtowers buckles, timbers snapping as it collapses into the firestorm. Screams echo from within the walls, panic, confusion, and agony as the defenders reel from the blast.

  A gaping breach now marks the southern wall, smoke curling from its rim, fire still clings to the stones.

  Daniel stares, breath caught in his throat, the blaze roaring higher than even his darkest imaginings. Seven hadn’t even reached the wall, just close... and the Emberglass had torn the crumbling stone apart as if Lumina herslef had struck it.

  That was no ordinary fire...

  Sorcery... it had to be sorcery...

  The knowledge of man could never...

  A guardsman at his side tugs at his arm, urgent. Daniel blinks and regathers his senses.

  "Men to me!" he roars, voice ringing clear. "To the breach! We strike!"

  His men break from the treeline in a surging wave, boots pounding towards the charred earth. Daniel leads the charge, guardsmen tight around him, all sixty of Ravencroft’s remaining guard, sent by Edwin to be the spearpoint that will pierce the heart of the fort. The militia follow close behind, mustering their courage, emboldened by the professionals ahead of them.

  Smoke far to the east where Seven’s body lies crumpled, thrown by the blast. Daniel’s eyes catch on it and a flick of emotion runs through him...

  But he crushes it down, eyes locking on to his goal.

  “Forward!” he bellows, his guardsmen cheering in response.

  They reach the breach with a roar, leaping over blackened stone slick with ash and shattered mortar. The gap is narrower than Daniel had hoped, half-choked with smoldering rubble.

  Dammit, there's not enough space.

  If Seven had just placed it a few steps closer, the Emberglass might’ve blasted the debris clear.

  The brigands within are dazed, ears ringing, eyes watering, some stumbling blindly as they reel from the force of the blast.

  Daniel doesn’t hesitate.

  “Through! Now! Cut them down!”

  He crashes forward, sword raised. A brigand lunges but Daniel’s blade is faster, cleaving through shoulder and spine. A second tries to retreat, but Daniel’s boot pins him to the wall before a thrust ends it. A third barely has time to scream before steel rips through his chest. The spearpoint of Ravencroft strikes home, swift and merciless.

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  An axe whistles in from the side, but it skitters harmlessly off Daniel’s plate. He barely registers the impact before turning, blade flashing, and cutting the attacker down with a precise stroke to the neck.

  "Hold the breach!" he roars. "Militia, clear the rubble! Make room for our men! We'll hold them here!"

  His guardsmen close in around him, shields raised, spears leveled. Together they move forward against the reeling brigands. Blood sprays, bodies fall, as one Daniel and his guardsmen keep the pressure while the brigands falter.

  Behind him, militiamen scramble to widen the opening, dragging fallen stone and splintered timber aside. More men squeeze through, trickling into the fray.

  Daniel strains to recall Edwin’s voice, his teachings, how to hold a chokepoint, how to rotate fresh men into the front. But the fire, the screaming, the heat of blood... it all blurs together.

  We have a foothold, we just have to maintain it!

  Daniel looks up and sees the brigands rally, faster than he'd thought possible after such a devastating blast. Movement surges across both the walls and the yard.

  Then... he sees why.

  A lone figure moves through the chaos like an anchor in a storm: heavily armed, clad in a brigandine similar to that which Seven wore. He’s large, thick-armed and barrel-chested, brandishing twin axes

  Twin axes...

  Bran. One of Edric’s lieutenants, without a doubt.

  Bran sneers as he strides forward, his axes whirling lazily in his grip. His presence is like a rallying banner, brigands surge with renewed ferocity, howling as they pour in from the northern end of the yard.

  Daniel's eyes scan the enemy line.

  Good. That might give Father and Gandre time to breach the gate.

  But the numbers tell a darker truth, at least a hundred are bearing down on him, and fewer than half his own men have made it through the breach. The rest are still struggling over rubble and bodies.

  Daniel's mind races. The battlements bristle with enemy bowmen, and if they aren’t dealt with, the breach will become a killing ground. He curses and makes his decision.

  “Thorne!” he shouts, pointing with his blade. “Take twenty of the guard and twenty militia, storm the walls! Clear those bastards off the heights!”

  Thorne nods, rallying his men and veering off toward the nearest stairwell. Daniel turns back to the breach.

  “Shields forward!” he commands. “Spears ready! On my mark!”

  The brigands bellow and charge. Daniel lifts his sword.

  “Hold the breach! Hold, or we’re all dead men!”

  The guardsmen lock shields just as the brigands crash into them with a roar. The clash is brutal, iron against iron, bodies slamming, steel cutting into flesh. Daniel and his men hold firm, each one drilled under Gandre’s ruthless regimen, sharpened by Edwin’s discipline. A force of guardsmen forged in a town led by a soldier.

  Spears thrust in tight formation, driving back the disorganized charge. Brigands howl and fall, their momentum failing against the disciplined wall of steel. Daniel rushes forward at the head of his men, carving a bloody path, eyes scanning for weakness.

  Behind him, more militiamen flood through the breach. Daniel turns his head and shouts over the din, “Archers, get to the walls! Drive their bowmen off! Militia, form ranks and stand your ground!”

  Daniel hears screams—men he knows, men he'd trained beside—falling in quick succession. He turns and sees the cause, Bran carves a ruthless path through his line.

  The man is a storm of violence, but not wild. His twin axes move in exact arcs, turning aside spearpoints, hooking shields, cleaving through flesh and bone. He steps light on his feet despite his size, using quick pivots and brutal combinations, one axe high to bait, the other low to kill. Every movement tells of battlefield experience.

  Daniel steels himself and charges forward, ready to test his longsword against the lethal brigand’s axes. But before he can close the distance, a sudden burst of snow erupts into his face. He grunts, recoiling instinctively, only to dive aside an instant later as two axes slash through the mist.

  Bran steps through the haze, smirking beneath his crooked helm.

  "Hope you've made peace with the goddess, lordling," he growls, axes twitching in his hands. "’Cause I’ll not leave enough o’ you for a grave."