After a week on the road, the Red Devils finally packed up what had once looked like a village.

  I was still in disbelief that Lucius, the tall brute that he was, would be able to manage all of this.

  Tents came down in a practiced rhythm. Fires were drowned. Wagons creaked under the weight of armor, food, and spoils from a dozen past contracts. What had been chaos folded itself into order with unnerving efficiency. These weren’t wanderers—they were efficient masters of war.

  By the time we arrived the land began to slope downward into the wide basin below Juniperhollow, the air had changed. Smoke hung low on the horizon. The distant outline of walls and watchtowers cut into the sky like broken teeth. Siege engines dotted the fields like dead animals, abandoned and half-burned.

  This was the staging ground.

  Thousands of soldiers milled about in rigid formations—Darwick men mostly, banners snapping in the wind. Compared to them, the Red Devils looked almost informal, loose lines, laughter still drifting through their ranks. But I could feel the difference.

  These men had chosen to be here.

  Lucius slowed his horse and lifted his chin, eyes narrowing as he took in the battlefield ahead. Then he glanced back at me.

  “Come on, Thomas.”

  Marcel fell in beside us without a word, his expression already hardened into something professional and cold.

  We made our way toward the largest command tent near the center of the encampment. Guards stepped aside when Lucius approached, some with clear reluctance, others with visible relief. Word traveled fast—especially when mercenaries like the Red Devils arrived.

  Inside the tent, the air smelled of parchment, ink, and sweat.

  Maps were spread across a heavy table, stones and daggers marking troop positions. A woman stood over them, hands braced against the wood as she studied the terrain with ruthless focus.

  Commander Yanna.

  She was tall, broad-shouldered, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid that left no room for vanity. Her armor was polished but scarred, worn by someone who had earned every mark. When she looked up, her eyes narrowed immediately.

  Lucius spread his arms wide as if arriving at a lover’s door.

  “My lady Yanna,” he said smoothly. “How have ya been?”

  “Enough,” she snapped. “Dog.”

  Lucius only grinned.

  She gestured sharply to the map. “Here’s the situation. The Church and the Marantell Empire have been holed up in Juniperhollow for months. Fortified, stubborn, and convinced they’re untouchable.”

  She stabbed a finger at the town’s outer wall.

  “We need the Devils to remind them this is Darwick territory.”

  Her gaze flicked briefly to me, then back to Lucius.

  “Our men won’t take the vanguard,” she continued, voice hard with contempt. “Too many coffins already. Too many excuses.”

  Lucius clicked his tongue. “Shame.”

  “You’ll have archer support,” Yanna went on, “and light cavalry to harass the defenders once the gates start cracking. But breaking the siege—opening the gate—that falls to your Devils.”

  Silence settled in the tent.

  Lucius’s grin sharpened into something dangerous.

  “It will be done,” he said, stepping closer. “My most beautiful lady.”

  Before anyone could react, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle.

  The sound of the slap echoed through the tent.

  Lucius’s head snapped to the side.

  Marcel didn’t even blink.

  “I missed you too, my love,” Lucius said cheerfully, rubbing his jaw.

  Yanna’s teeth ground together. “Get out of my face, dog.”

  She straightened, voice rising just enough to carry authority beyond the canvas walls.

  “You are dismissed. We attack at dawn.”

  Lucius bowed exaggeratedly and turned on his heel, already laughing.

  As we stepped back into the open air, the noise of the camp rushed back in—metal on metal, shouted orders, distant horns.

  Marcel glanced at me. “Hope you slept well this past week.”

  Lucius clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Because tomorrow, Thomas,” he said lightly, “you get to see how the Red Devils earn their name.”

  I looked out toward Juniperhollow, its walls looming dark against the dying light.

  Tomorrow wasn’t just another battle.

  It was a door.

  And once it opened, there would be no closing it again.

  ***

  Dawn broke cold and colorless.

  Mist clung to the low ground as the Red Devils assembled at the staging area, boots sinking into damp earth. The smell of oil and horse sweat hung thick in the air, mixed with the distant smoke drifting from Juniperhollow. Somewhere ahead, the town’s walls loomed unseen, waiting.

  Lucius and Marcel mounted first.

  A hundred cavalry men formed up around them, spears upright like a forest of iron. Horses stamped and snorted, restless, sensing what was coming. Lucius sat tall in the saddle, red bandana tied tight around his arm, expression calm in a way that made my stomach knot.

  I fell in with the footmen.

  Our line tightened as a Red Devil named Faust moved down the ranks, armor scarred and voice sharp. He checked straps, tugged shields, kicked at loose greaves.

  “Spears straight.”

  “Shield high.”

  “If it falls off now, it falls off forever.”

  When he reached me, he paused, eyes flicking over my new armor, the sword at my hip, the red bandana on my arm.

  “First siege?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He grunted. “Then stick close and don’t chase glory. The Gates kill faster than men.”

  He moved on.

  Across the field, I saw Sophie standing with Alyana and the rest of the medical teams, packs ready, stretchers stacked neatly. Sophie’s hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles white. When our eyes met, her mouth tightened—not fear exactly, but worry she refused to voice.

  Alyana leaned in beside her and said something I couldn’t hear. Sophie nodded, then lifted her chin and called out, “We’ll be ready for your return.”

  I swallowed and raised my shield slightly in answer.

  Lucius’s gaze cut through the ranks then, finding me without effort. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave.

  He gave me a single, gentle nod.

  I nodded back.

  A horn sounded—long and low—from the Darwick lines.

  Another answered it.

  Then another.

  The sound rolled across the field like a summons, vibrating in my chest as the lines began to move. Boots struck the ground in unison. Cavalry surged forward at a measured pace, banners lifting into the morning air.

  We marched.

  As the mist thinned and the walls of Juniperhollow emerged ahead of us, dark and defiant, I felt the weight of it settle in my bones. This wasn’t training. This wasn’t a border skirmish.

  This was a siege.

  Steel ahead.

  Fire above.

  No turning back.

  The horns cried out once more.

  And as the Red Devils advanced beneath the rising sun, I understood with a clarity that left no room for doubt:

  The battle for the Hollow had begun.

  Fire screamed overhead.

  It came first as a distant whistle—then the sky shattered.

  Boulders and flaming shot arced down from Juniperhollow’s walls, slamming into stone with thunderous force. One struck the parapet and exploded into shards, another crashed short of the gate, throwing men from their feet like dolls.

  “Shields up!” Faust roared.

  I raised mine just in time.

  Arrows followed—black streaks slicing through smoke and morning light. They rattled against wood and iron, some punching through gaps, others glancing off with shrill cracks that set my teeth on edge. The sound was everywhere. Relentless.

  Above us, the walls of the Hollow bristled with archers.

  Ahead, the ground trembled.

  The cavalry surged past on our flanks, dust billowing up as Lucius and Marcel led them straight toward the defenders spilling out from the gates. Spears dipped. Horses screamed. The clash came moments later—a violent collision of steel and flesh that vanished into a rolling cloud of dirt and chaos.

  I barely had time to look.

  Behind our line, two massive battering rams creaked forward, pushed by sweating men hunched low beneath wooden frames reinforced with iron bands. Every step they took felt earned in blood.

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  Another boulder fell.

  It struck just ahead of us, the impact knocking men backward in a spray of earth and screams. One soldier went down clutching his leg, bone jutting white through torn flesh. Another didn’t get back up at all.

  “Close ranks!” Faust shouted. “Tight! Tight!”

  We obeyed, shields overlapping, shoulders pressing together until I could feel the man beside me breathing. The formation tightened, becoming something heavier than fear—something stubborn and immovable.

  Arrows kept coming.

  One punched into the shield just inches from my face, the shaft vibrating violently. I flinched, heart slamming against my ribs, breath hitching despite my effort to steady it.

  Keep moving.

  Don’t stop.

  That was the rule now.

  Step by step, we advanced down the killing field. Smoke stung my eyes. My arms burned from holding the shield high. Somewhere to my left, a man yelped and fell, his scream cut short as the line closed over him.

  There was no room to look back.

  Only forward—toward the towering gate of Juniperhollow, toward the fire raining down, toward the sound of steel screaming against steel.

  My breath came fast and shallow as the ground shook beneath our boots.

  And as we marched into the storm of arrows and stone, one truth settled deep in my chest, cold and undeniable:

  This was what it meant to be the vanguard.

  To walk first into hell—

  —and keep walking anyway.

  The cavalry thundered back toward us in a cloud of dust and blood.

  Their charge had bought us the opening we needed—but only just.

  Faust’s voice cut through the chaos, raw and hoarse.

  “Charge, you Devils!”

  The line shattered.

  We broke rank and surged forward as one, shields dropped, blades drawn. The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet as I ran, the world narrowing to the space directly in front of me.

  The first defender rushed me screaming, eyes wild. I didn’t think—I moved. I drove my sword forward and felt it punch into his chest. The impact jarred my arm. He gasped once, a wet sound, and collapsed at my feet.

  No time.

  Another man was already on me.

  Steel rang as I caught his swing on my blade. He pushed hard, teeth bared, breath hot and sour. I twisted my wrist and slipped inside his guard, thrusting upward. My blade slid into his throat.

  Blood sprayed warm across my face.

  I staggered back, heart hammering, breath coming too fast. I wiped my eyes with the back of my arm and forced myself to look around.

  The field had become a slaughter.

  The Red Devils were everywhere—no formation now, just motion and violence. They moved like wolves unleashed, tearing into gaps, dragging men down, striking again and again without mercy. Screams cut through the air, then vanished just as quickly.

  Through the smoke and bodies, I saw Ashe.

  He moved low and fast, slipping under a towering defender’s guard and burying his blade into the man’s gut—once, twice—before ripping it free and shoving the corpse aside. His face was set, cold and focused, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.

  A shriek snapped me back.

  A soldier barreled toward me, swinging wildly. His blade bit into my shoulder, pain flashing white-hot down my arm. I cried out and slashed back, catching him across the ribs. He stumbled, and I slammed my shield into his face.

  Bone cracked.

  He went down hard.

  Before I could finish it, another Devil lunged past me and drove a sword into the man’s chest, ripping it free in one practiced motion.

  “Move!” he barked, already gone.

  I sucked in air, lungs burning, shoulder screaming in protest. I forced my grip tighter on my sword, grounding myself in the weight of it.

  Above us, the siege continued.

  Boulders slammed into the walls again and again, the stone groaning under the punishment. Fire blossomed along the parapets. Archers fell screaming as chunks of masonry tore them apart.

  I tried to slow my breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  Don’t let the panic take you.

  Around me, the battle raged—steel clashing, men shouting, dying. The Red Devils pressed forward relentlessly, carving a path toward the gate as smoke and dust choked the air.

  This wasn’t glory.

  This wasn’t vengeance.

  This was survival—earned step by bloody step.

  And as I raised my blade again and plunged back into the melee, one thought burned through the noise and pain:

  Keep moving.

  Because stopping here meant dying.

  ***

  The approach to the gates was worse.

  Closer, everything felt louder—arrows screaming down from the parapets, men shouting orders that dissolved into the roar of battle before they could finish. The walls of Juniperhollow loomed overhead now, close enough that I could see the defenders’ faces as they leaned over the stone.

  Fear hit me like a second heartbeat.

  “Shields!” Faust bellowed. “Up! Hold them high!”

  We obeyed instantly, snapping together into a moving shell of wood and iron. Arrows slammed into us in volleys, thudding so hard they rattled my bones. One punched clean through a shield two men down, the bearer dropping with a strangled cry before anyone could drag him clear.

  “Ladders!” Faust shouted.

  The ladder bearers surged forward.

  They didn’t make it far.

  Arrows tore into them one after another—throats, shoulders, legs. One man spun as a shaft hit his eye, collapsing in a heap. Another took two arrows in the chest and still staggered forward three more steps before falling face-first into the dirt.

  We pressed in around them, shields overlapping tighter, trying desperately to give them cover. My arm screamed as I held my shield overhead, muscles trembling.

  Above us, Devils were already climbing.

  Some made it halfway before hands appeared at the top—pikes stabbing down, boots kicking. Men fell screaming, bodies tumbling back down the wall to land broken at our feet.

  A shout of triumph turned into a howl of agony as boiling oil poured over one of the ladders.

  Men burned.

  Their screams were animal, raw and unbearable. One Devil staggered backward, armor smoking, skin blistering and sloughing off his arms as he collapsed, clawing at himself until he stopped moving.

  We reached the gates.

  A sudden shout went up as hot oil was dumped again, this time spilling outward.

  I barely had time to react.

  I threw my shield up, angling it just as the dark liquid splashed down. Most of it ran off the wood, but droplets slipped past the rim, striking my forearm and neck.

  The pain was instant.

  White-hot.

  I bit back a scream, teeth grinding as my skin burned. The smell—burnt oil and flesh—turned my stomach.

  We were packed tight now, bodies pressed together so closely I could feel the man behind me shaking. There was nowhere to move. Nowhere to retreat.

  Then the ground shook.

  The battering rams arrived.

  Massive, iron-capped beams swung forward under shouted commands, slamming into the gates with a thunderous crack. The impact echoed through my chest like a second heart, sending splinters flying.

  Boom.

  The gates groaned.

  Boom.

  Another strike. Dust rained down from the stone above us.

  Arrows kept falling. Oil kept pouring. Men kept dying.

  And still, the Red Devils held.

  Shield to shield.

  Shoulder to shoulder.

  Pinned beneath the walls of Juniperhollow, trapped between fire from above and steel from within—

  —we waited for the gates to break.

  Because once they did, there would be no more shelter.

  Only what came next.

  ***

  The gates gave way with a sound like the world breaking.

  Wood split. Iron shrieked. The massive doors of Juniperhollow collapsed inward in a violent, splintering thud that shook the ground beneath our feet.

  For half a heartbeat, there was silence.

  Then a horn blasted from behind us—deep, triumphant.

  Reinforcements surged forward, Darwick soldiers pouring through the smoke and dust, their battle cries rolling over us like a wave. Fresh bodies, fresh steel, momentum crashing into the breach.

  “Forward!” Faust roared. “Through the gate!”

  The defenders tried desperately to form a line inside the opening—shields up, spears braced—but it was too late.

  The Wolves were loose.

  The Red Devils poured through the shattered gate like a living tide, cutting, hacking, dragging men down in the narrow kill zone. I was swept along with them, boots skidding over broken wood and blood-slick stone.

  A defender lunged at me from the side. I caught his spear on my shield and shoved forward, slamming him into another man. A Devil took the opening and split the second man’s skull with an axe.

  Inside the gate, the fighting was brutal and close.

  No room to swing wide. No space to retreat. Blades thrust and stabbed in frantic motions. Men screamed as they were crushed against the walls, trampled underfoot as the press of bodies forced everyone forward.

  I caught a glimpse of Lucius ahead—mounted no longer, fighting on foot now, laughing as he carved a path through the defenders with terrifying ease. Marcel moved beside him like a shadow, efficient and merciless.

  The defenders broke.

  Some tried to flee deeper into the town. Others dropped their weapons, hands raised in surrender, only to be dragged down by the weight of the charge behind us.

  The Wolves tore through.

  Once the breach opened, there was no stopping them.

  As we pushed into Juniperhollow’s streets, smoke and fire curling around us, one truth rang louder than the horns and screams combined:

  The siege was over.

  What followed would be remembered for much longer.

  ***

  Juniperhollow was dying.

  The defenders were already falling back toward the inner castle, abandoning the outer streets without a second thought. Their discipline shattered into panic. They ran past burning homes and shattered stalls, leaving civilians screaming in doorways or crushed beneath boots.

  I saw a man cleaved clean in two by an axe—top half sliding from the bottom like a butchered carcass.

  The Red Devils surged through the streets behind me, looting as they went. Doors were kicked in. Windows smashed. Fire climbed hungrily up wooden beams, smoke rolling low and thick, stinging my eyes and throat.

  This wasn’t a battle anymore.

  It was a collapse.

  I turned down a narrow side street, drawn by a sound that didn’t belong to soldiers—thin, desperate, human.

  Inside a small stone house, a Devil had a girl pinned against the wall. His knife was pressed just hard enough to draw blood, a thin red line trembling along her throat. Her mother knelt nearby, hands raised, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

  The Devil looked over his shoulder when I stepped in.

  “What are you gawking at?” he snarled. “This is my house. I’m looting it first.”

  He licked his lips slowly, eyes never leaving the girl.

  “I said get out,” he screamed, voice cracking with fury and hunger. “Before I gut you too!”

  Something in me went cold.

  I didn’t shout.

  I didn’t warn him.

  I drew the SIN.

  The iron hummed in my hand, heat blooming up my arm as if it recognized the choice before I did. I fired.

  The sound was deafening in the confined space.

  The Devil was lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall behind him, collapsing in a heap of broken limbs and blood. His knife clattered uselessly across the floor.

  The women screamed.

  The girl snatched the fallen blade and pointed it at me, her hands shaking violently, eyes wild with terror and fury.

  “Go,” I shouted, voice breaking through the haze. “Hide. Now!”

  For a heartbeat, she hesitated.

  Then her mother grabbed her arm, and they ran—barefoot, sobbing, vanishing through the back of the house into smoke and chaos.

  I stood there alone, breathing hard.

  Then the pain hit.

  It shot through my skull like a spike, sudden and brutal, dropping me to one knee. I gasped, clutching my head as the world tilted.

  A name burned behind my eyes.

  Ruth Verity has been erased.

  I swallowed a scream.

  When the pain faded, it left something worse behind—emptiness. A hollow ache I couldn’t name, like a door closing somewhere deep inside me.

  I pushed myself back to my feet, the SIN heavy in my hand, its warmth already fading.

  Outside, Juniperhollow continued to burn.

  And I understood, that every time I used the SIN to save someone—

  —I was burying another piece of myself with the dead.