The front lines of Crestfall lay beneath a sky the color of old steel.

  Mist rolled low across the broken plains, curling around shattered wagons, trampled grass, and half-buried banners marked with the sigil of the falling crown. Campfires burned dimly behind earthen ridges, their smoke smearing the horizon like bruises.

  Selene Vael stood at the highest rise, her cloak snapping in the cold wind.

  She did not look afraid.

  She looked focused.

  “Confirm the count again,” Selene said, her voice calm but sharp.

  A knight stepped forward and dropped to one knee. His armor bore fresh dents, his face streaked with dust. “Two hundred and twelve infantry. Forty-eight archers. Twelve mage-support units. All ready, Captain.”

  Selene nodded slowly. “And the enemy?”

  “Scouts report a forward Valenreach encampment roughly half a league ahead. Light fortifications. No banners raised.”

  Another knight frowned. “Too quiet.”

  Selene’s eyes narrowed. “Everything has been too quiet since Vale fell.”

  A murmur rippled through the knights at the mention of Sir Aurelius Phineas Vale. Even now, the name carried weight—loss, failure, and a wound that had not stopped bleeding.

  “We strike before they relocate,” Selene said. “If this is a staging camp, it dies tonight.”

  A younger knight shifted uneasily. “Captain… something feels wrong.”

  Selene turned to him. Her gaze softened, just slightly. “Fear keeps you alive. Let it sharpen you, not freeze you.”

  She lifted her bow.

  It was not made of wood.

  The bow shimmered faintly, formed from condensed mana, lines of light etched with subtle harmonic ripples—like frozen music. As her fingers brushed the string, a quiet hum filled the air, barely audible but felt.

  “Arrow of Songs,” whispered one of the archers reverently.

  Selene exhaled.

  “Advance.”

  They moved fast.

  Crestfall knights surged forward, boots pounding the earth, banners unfurled as the fog parted before them. The enemy camp came into view—rows of tents, supply crates, strange metal frames mounted on tripods.

  Several knights slowed.

  “What in the Crown’s name are those?” someone muttered.

  “They’re not ballistae,” another said. “Too small.”

  Selene raised her fist.

  “Halt.”

  The camp ahead stirred.

  Figures emerged—Valenreach soldiers, yes—but behind them were shapes Crestfall had never seen before.

  Metal tubes.

  Thick barrels mounted on wooden stocks.

  Crude, ugly devices held together by bolts, bands, and desperation.

  A man stepped forward from the Valenreach lines, laughing wildly.

  His hair was a mess of white and black, his eyes too bright, his coat scorched and stained with oil.

  “Oh—oh, this is perfect,” he said, clapping his hands. “Absolutely perfect timing!”

  Selene stared at him. “Identify yourself.”

  He bowed exaggeratedly. “Dr. Malrec Veynholm. Inventor. Visionary. Slightly unappreciated genius.”

  One of Selene’s knights hissed, “Captain… those weapons—”

  Malrec grinned. “Guns,” he said proudly. “Well. Proto-guns. First of their kind. Marvels, really. Sometimes they explode. Sometimes they don’t fire. Sometimes they fire twice. Science is thrilling like that.”

  Selene raised her bow slowly.

  “You picked a poor place to test them.”

  Malrec’s smile widened. “On the contrary.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Fire.”

  The world broke.

  A thunderclap tore through the battlefield—sharp, violent, alien. Smoke burst from the Valenreach lines as metal roared.

  Knights screamed.

  Not in pain—but in shock.

  “What was that?!”

  “By the Crown—my shield—!”

  “It pierced straight through!”

  Selene’s eyes widened as a knight beside her collapsed, his armor punched clean through, the impact throwing him backward like a doll.

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  “No arrows,” someone shouted. “No spells!”

  Another crack.

  Another thunderous roar.

  The sound alone rattled teeth.

  “Shields up!” Selene commanded. “Advance—don’t let them reload!”

  They charged.

  Arrows flew—steel and mana both—but the guns answered with brutal rhythm. Some misfired, bursting apart in sparks and screams, but enough worked.

  Enough worked.

  The Valenreach line did not need precision.

  Only noise.

  Only force.

  Selene loosed an arrow.

  It screamed as it flew, vibrating with harmonic energy. It struck a gunner and detonated, knocking three soldiers off their feet in a concussive wave.

  “Left flank, with me!” she shouted.

  Another arrow—this one piercing—phased through a shield and struck the ground behind it, releasing a sonic shock that shattered wooden frames.

  But still the guns roared.

  The battlefield became chaos—smoke, thunder, shouted prayers, broken formations.

  “They’re cutting us down!” a knight cried.

  Selene felt it too.

  This wasn’t a fight.

  It was an experiment.

  And they were the subjects.

  She planted her feet and drew deeply from her mana. The air around her bow shimmered, vibrating like a struck chord.

  “Cover your ears!” she shouted.

  Her knights obeyed instinctively.

  Selene aimed upward.

  High into the sky.

  She released.

  The arrow vanished into the clouds.

  For one breath, nothing happened.

  Then—

  The sky sang.

  A distant, mournful resonance echoed above the battlefield, not lyrics, not words—just a haunting melody that felt like memory and loss. Some knights recognized it faintly, an old tune whispered among camps and ashes.

  Dancing Ashes.

  The arrow exploded high above, fragmenting into hundreds—no, thousands—of glowing shards.

  They rained down.

  Each fragment hummed with its own note, striking ground, armor, weapons, flesh—detonating in flashes of light and sound. Sonic waves rippled outward, knocking soldiers flat, shattering tents, collapsing lines.

  Valenreach screamed.

  Crestfall screamed too.

  The battlefield became a storm of sound and fire.

  Selene staggered, blood at the corner of her mouth.

  “That took too much,” she muttered.

  A knight grabbed her arm. “Captain—look!”

  Through the smoke, Valenreach soldiers were still standing.

  Fewer—but standing.

  And behind them, Malrec Veynholm was laughing.

  “Incredible! Oh, absolutely incredible!” he shouted. “Did you see that resonance?! We need to adjust the firing pins—load again! LOAD AGAIN!”

  Another volley roared.

  Crestfall formations shattered.

  “Retreat!” someone yelled.

  “No!” Selene snapped. “Hold the line!”

  But the line was already breaking.

  Guns thundered. Knights fell. The sound alone stole courage from hardened veterans.

  Selene fired again—but her arrows were slower now. Weaker.

  Her mana was draining fast.

  A knight fell at her feet.

  “Captain…” he whispered. “We can’t—”

  Selene clenched her teeth.

  “I know.”

  She looked across the battlefield—at the smoke, the thunder, the future crashing down on them with every shot.

  This wasn’t just a loss.

  It was the end of an age.

  “Fall back!” she ordered at last. “Get whoever you can out!”

  As Crestfall forces retreated under fire, Valenreach banners rose higher.

  Malrec watched them flee, eyes gleaming.

  “Oh yes,” he murmured. “This will change everything.”

  Behind him, the guns smoked and hissed—some broken, some silent, some ready to roar again.

  The battle was not over.

  But its direction was clear.

  And Crestfall was losing.