Dawn breaks, a pale wash of light filtering through the morning mist that clings to the forest. The soldiers, barely more than townsmen with an assortment of weapons, stand at the treeline, silent, breath steaming in the cold. Many tremble, clutching weapons they've never wielded in anger, hearts thundering beneath mismatched cloaks and ill-fitted gambesons.

  Across the field, Fort Gaellin stands, its stone walls lined with jeering brigands. Laughter echoes over the frost, cruel and mocking. Some raise crude gestures, others bare their arses, and one even waggles his cock at the trembling line of militia, a display of scorn from men who think themselves untouchable behind their battlements.

  Edwin strides to the fore, his full plate gleaming dully in the pale light, a large greatsword resting easily in his grip. He halts before the quivering line of militia, men clutching their makeshift weapons with white-knuckled fear. His voice rises, cutting through the morning fog, his calm demeanor breaking before righteous indignation.

  "I know you're afraid," he begins, pacing before them. "I was too, in my first battle. It's no shame to fear death, but I tell you now, I've marched through fields worse than this. I've stood where you're standing and lived to see the sun rise again. If you trust in me, if you hold the line, you'll see it too."

  The men stir uneasily, the name of Edwin, a soldier who earned Ravencroft through blood and service, a renowned commander in Lumenon's army, bringing some steadiness to their fear. His voice grows sharper, rising in fury.

  "For too long have these brigand dogs festered like rot in our land. These ginger-blooded welps, these useless, limp-pricked cowards! They prey on honest folk because they’re too craven or shiftless to earn their own bread. They've bled our roads, butchered traders, stolen our goods, and not to bloody mention...."

  He pauses, letting the silence stretch. Then, his voice erupts like a thunderclap.

  "THEY PILLAGED OUR FUCKING TOWN!"

  The words slam into the crowd like a hammer, men nodding grimly, rage flickering behind frightened eyes.

  Edwin presses forward, his voice fierce and unwavering. "They butchered your fathers, your brothers, your sons! They raped your wives, your daughters, your sisters! And for what? Loot? Profit?"

  He throws a hand toward the looming fort. "And now they wall themselves in, fattening off of what they stole from us. What we built with our hands, what we earned with our sweat and blood! They think these walls will keep them safe? Not while I fucking breathe. I'd sooner be buried in the ground than let these godless, pissborn curs live another day in this world!"

  The men roar their agreement, a ragged, thunderous sound that rolls through the trees. Edwin raises his greatsword high, his voice cutting through the din.

  "Citizens of Ravencroft! Are you ready to defend your home, your kin, your blood!?"

  Another cheer erupts, louder this time, the militia emboldened by fury and the fire in Edwin’s words.

  He paces before them, armor gleaming dully beneath the morning sky. "Are you ready to put these motherless dogs in the ground where they belong? To show them what happens when you lay hand on Ravencroft’s people?"

  The men howl their answer, boots stomping the frozen ground, weapons lifted in defiance.

  Edwin gives a sharp nod, his face a mask of war. "Then form ranks! Pikes to the front, archers ready! We do it now! Let the bastards know we are not cattle to be butchered, we are the storm they’ve summoned!"

  The order is given. Horns bray low and deep as the militia surges forward from the woods, their breaths visible in the chill morning air.

  At the back, Father Alric prays for the coming battle, offering comfort to the faithful.

  While at the front, Gandre bellows like a warhorn himself: “Ram forward!”

  A dozen men strain under the weight of the felled oak, stripped of its branches and bound with iron bands. The base has been crudely mounted on wheels, salvaged from the wagons that supplied the march and bolted into a rough axle. The makeshift battering ram lurches forward, creaking with each step over the frozen soil.

  “Raise the mantlet!” Gandre commands.

  A large timber canopy, fashioned hastily from what remained of the supply carts, is hoisted up by another team. Wooden beams lashed with rope form a low sloped roof, offering solid protection from above. A dozen shieldbearers walk beneath it, forming a living cage around the ram.

  “Advance!” Gandre roars, sword drawn, marching just behind the vanguard. The ram team surges ahead under cover of the mantlet, flanked tightly by shieldmen, all of them advancing steadily toward the iron-bound gates of Fort Gaellin.

  A shout pierces the morning air.

  “Loose!”

  And a storm of arrows descends from the battlements like a blackened rain. The brigands, raging from behind their walls, unleash volley after volley.

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  Shields thunder under the impacts, arrows biting deep into timber and flesh alike. Half a dozen men crumple before reaching the gate, but the rest press forward without hesitation. Blood smears the snow, steam rising from the wounded.

  Gandre bellows over the chaos, voice harsh and guttural. “Forward, damn you! You want them to skewer yer children next? Move yer arses! Shields up, push hard!”

  The men roar in response, driven by courage, desperation and the sheer ferocity of their commander. Under the cover of the mantlet, they reach the gate, the ram swinging into place.

  “Drive it home! Crack the fucker open!” Gandre snarls, sword raised high as he wades in behind them.

  With a thunderous crash, they drive the great oak ram into the iron-bound gates, its wheeled frame locking in place against a series of wedge-stakes hammered into the frozen earth to anchor its weight. The momentum of the charge gives way to raw muscle now, men heaving the shaft back and forth, each swing sending deep echoes through the gate's heavy timbers.

  From the battlements above, the brigands curse and retaliate, rocks hurled down with reckless force, some breaking through gaps in the mantlet roof, smashing against helmets and skulls. Arrows whistle through the splintered holes, drawing blood.

  Gandre is relentless. He sees the breaches in the mantlet and immediately calls for tower shields. "Block those gaps! Hold them firm!" he shouts, dragging men into position, slamming their shields into place overhead. The timbers groan, but hold. Every movement of the ram is met with the harsh bellow of command, the precision of a veteran who’s battered down countless walls before.

  Meanwhile, Daniel and I crouch low in the brush, half of Edwin’s men hidden in the treeline behind us. My stomach knots, the weight of the Emberglass jar in my hands heavier than its size should allow. A cold shiver traces my spine, nerves crawling to my fingertips painfully.

  Daniel gives me a sharp nod. “Go.”

  "Fuck...." I exhale, cursing under my breath, and slip from the shadow of the trees.

  The snow crunches beneath my boots as I dart forward, keeping low, every step precise. The fort rises ahead, silent but for the distant roar of battle on the northern wall. If the brigands in the watchtowers glance south, even once, it could all end here. I can't run with this jar. I can't dodge arrows. I can only hope they’re watching Gandre’s charge, not me.

  Closer now. The cracks in the wall are visible. My heart thunders. So far, no alarm. I push on, every breath tight in my throat.

  As I creep closer, a breath of relief loosens in my chest. No sign that the brigands have spotted me, and at this distance, unless they look directly down, they shouldn’t. Just a few more steps...

  The snow ahead shifts.

  A mound ripples, then splits apart, and from it bursts a massive spider, its chitin glistening black against the frost. Larger than a wolf, its legs rise like spears, each movement deliberate, unsettling. It clicks once, sharp, wet... and begins to crawl forward, snow hissing beneath its limbs.

  My heart jolts in my chest, fear piercing me like a shard of ice. For a moment, I freeze, caught between thought and instinct, as the spider advances slowly. Each step crunches softly over the frost, its fangs twitching, legs rising and lowering with uncanny grace.

  Dammit, I can't fight with the Emberglass in hand.

  One misstep and the fire will kill me and the damned spider...

  Hells... I forgot how disgusting they are...

  Keeping my eyes locked on the spider, I crouch slowly and lower the jar into the snow with delicate care, as if setting down a sleeping child. The moment it leaves my hands, I step back, measured, quiet, giving space. It's far too dangerous to fight near.

  Is the Emberglass close enough to the wall?

  It has to be…

  I should retreat now.

  I draw the sword at my belt, my spear left behind, too cumbersome to carry alongside the Emberglass. My gaze darts to the battlements... still clear. No eyes on me. Then back to Daniel, crouched in the distance, eyes wide with alarm.

  I’ll retreat back to the woods. Then his archers can hit the Emberglass…

  A flash of black blurs across my vision. The spider, legs and fangs launching at me.

  "Shit," I hiss, diving out of the way.

  I strike back. My blade flashes through the air. The spider leaps aside, legs scrabbling across the snow in a frantic flurry, mandibles snapping.

  I see it all too clearly... Joss writhing in the barn, veins blackened, his insides liquefying beneath his skin. That memory alone sends a jolt of terror down my spine.

  I grip the sword tighter.

  I cannot be bitten. Not once.

  The spider squats low, then leaps, its limbs spread wide, trying to wrap around me in a crushing embrace. I twist away just in time, my sword sweeping upward in a gleaming arc. The steel blade connects, cleaving through two of its legs mid-flight.

  It lands hard, shrieking, high and grating, as it tumbles in the snow, limbs thrashing. I press the attack without pause, blade slashing, stabbing, driving through chitin and sinew. The creature’s body spasms under each blow, but its frenzy doesn't relent. It strikes out blindly, legs kicking with terrifying force, venomous fangs snapping inches from my skin. Its survival instinct is powerful, primal, desperate.

  But I am not the man I was in Mistvale.

  I sidestep a flailing limb, knock aside its snapping jaw, and drive my sword straight down through its chitinous skull.

  A wet crack sounds, then a shudder. Until finally, it falls silent.

  But the silence offers no peace. For the moment I move towards Daniel, the snow between us trembles.

  From beneath it, more shapes rise, legs unfurling, fangs twitching... spiders, two more, sloughing off the frost clinging to its skin, eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence.

  One of the spiders lurches forward, slower than the other, but unnervingly graceful. Its limbs twitch with unnatural rhythm, and as it nears, it speaks.

  Not in hisses or clicks, but in a voice I know.

  Dry and raspy.

  Maldor's.

  "Apprentice," it says. "Why do you stand against us? Did we not grant you knowledge? Did you not thrive under our teaching?"

  The words scrape at my ears, crawling into my mind like splinters. The spider's mandibles twitch with each syllable, too precisely timed to be coincidence.

  "Come out, Maldor. Speak to me yourself. Then I’ll answer." I say without really thinking, my mind focused on the spiders in front of me. Slowly, I circle around them…

  I want my back facing Daniel, not the fort.

  “Apprentice… your plan is known to me. If it is truly your desire to face me… I will be waiting.”

  The spider halts. Tilts its head.

  Then, without warning, it spins sharply and scuttles away, towards the fort.

  For half a second, I think it's retreating.

  Then I see its path.

  "NO!" I shout, stumbling backward.

  The spider bolts toward the Emberglass, limbs skittering wildly. I run, but too late.

  It leaps, fangs glinting and lands directly atop the jar.

  A searing light blooms.

  Sound vanishes, blown away by raw force.

  And then flame engulfs everything.