The next morning broke hard and fast. Boots rang on stone as a guard hurried into the hall, breathless with urgency.

  “My lord — a man at the gates. Franklin Square is under attack. Bandits, raiding, burning.”

  Petric looked once at Jorlan, at Nell. Without a word, they were already in motion. Kelara, Jerric, and Lysa followed, steel and bow in hand.

  By the time they reached the village, smoke coiled into the twilight sky. Houses guttered, and shouts carried through the square. Bandits with desert-scarves and jagged steel tore through carts and doors.

  Jorlan narrowed his eyes, scanning the ridges. “North trail looks clear. We could flank from the ridge.”

  Petric’s jaw set. “Good. Let’s end this before supper.”

  He strode into the square, voice cutting across chaos, steady as iron.

  “Shields forward! Hold the line! Lysa—eyes high, pin their runners! Nell, with me on the front! Kelara, to my side. Jerric—stay mobile, strike where they falter. Jorlan—use your tricks, keep them broken!”

  The words struck like hammer-blows. The villagers rallied; even his own blood stood straighter.

  Steel met steel.

  Lysa loosed quick shots from the ground, forcing two raiders back. A third lunged at her with a jagged blade — she rolled, sprang against the wall, and twisted into a backflip over his head. The bowstring snapped midair — three arrows fanning out and dropping her attackers before her boots touched stone again. She rolled through, fluid as smoke, already reaching for another shaft.

  “Not bad,” Nell bellowed, swinging his hammer wide.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Jorlan only flicked his fingers — a ripple of gravity pulled a knot of raiders into one tight cluster. “Now!”

  Nell surged forward, hammer crashing down with bone-shaking force, scattering men as though they’d been made of straw.

  Another pair of raiders charged from the flank — Jorlan snapped his wrist, loosing a sudden Impulse Arc that cracked through their shields and hurled them back across the cobbles. “Stay down,” he muttered, already shifting his stance.

  Petric fought shoulder to shoulder with Kelara, sword and shield flashing in tandem. A bandit lunged low; Petric raised his shield. Jerric came sprinting, planted one foot on the lion sigil, and vaulted high — turning midair to slash clean through his target before landing in a skid. Petric gave the faintest ghost of a smile before raising his shield again.

  From the rooftops, a sun-bleached cloak snapped as a longbow thrummed. Bradan — wiry, fearless, a born archer who treated battle like sport.

  On the ground, another figure moved with startling precision. Gung fought without steel, staff flashing, fists and feet striking faster than eyes could follow. His dark eyes burned with calm intensity, every motion honed, deliberate. Where Bradan laughed, Gung was silence and focus — a storm contained in muscle and discipline.

  With their help, the tide turned. The last raiders broke, scattering into the smoke. Some fled back toward the desert paths. Petric didn’t pursue. He lowered his blade, chest heaving, eyes hard.

  “These weren’t common thieves,” he said, voice grim. “Desert men. Sal’s men.”

  The name pulled the air tighter. Nell spat in the dirt.

  Petric sheathed his sword, gaze distant. “He won’t take this loss lying down. He never has. Sal will be back — and louder.”

  Bradan dropped from the roof, Gung stepping to his side. Both bloodied, both unbowed. Petric faced them, his voice quiet but full of weight.

  “I can’t hold this house with steel alone. I need my brothers — in blood or bond. Will you stand with me?”

  Gung’s dark eyes flickered, hands still trembling from the fight. “War’s never been my path. I walk with God, not blades. But… if the greater good calls, I’ll answer.”

  Bradan clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Save the sermons. You know where you belong. And you—” he looked to Petric, grin fierce, “—you’ll never have to fight without me. Not while I can still draw a bow.”

  Petric’s throat tightened, but he only nodded. “Take your days. Say your goodbyes. Then come to Eryndral. We’ll need every lion ready.”

  The flames in Franklin Square hissed low. Smoke drifted like ghosts into the night. And with it came the weight of what was still to come.