Gaveth snorted, scratching at a dent in his breastplate. "Poison? That's a lot of alchemy for one night. I say we drop charges from the Seraph. Blast the riverbank to rubble, clog the whole damn thing. No boats, no crossing."
Soren shifted, voice low. "What about their scouts? Ravenglass has lookouts on the cliffs. If they spot the ships early, they could signal for backup before we land."
Vaelin eyed him, sizing him up. "Good catch. We'll load Starfang with arc-bolts—long-range, punch through armor. Ballistae get chain-shot to shred their runners. If they signal, they'll be dead before anyone hears."
He tapped the map rhythmically. "Here's how it goes: Skyclaw and Dawnbreaker scout at first light, mapping defenses. Seraph drops two squads on this ridge—" He marked it. "—one in the valley. Starfang and Viper's Breath cover the air, keep their archers pinned. Engineers throw up barriers. We hold Ravenglass three days, then march to link with Tarseth's legion at Blackspire."
Koren crossed his arms, still not convinced. "Three days is tight. If they push back sooner—"
"They won't," Vaelin cut in. "Ironhollow's their nearest base—a week's hike. We'll have Ravenglass sewn up before they know what hit them."
Torv grinned, slow. "Risky as hell, but clean."
Lirien smirked. "Better than twiddling our thumbs here."
Vaelin's hand settled on his sword, its faint buzz blending with the airships' hum. "Done. Gear up, catch some sleep. Dawn's—"
"Ahhhhhhhh."
A scream tore through the walls—it was like a human was being tortured, like they were being ripped apart by claws. A deep boom followed, shaking the table, sending a dagger clattering to the floor. Dust sifted from the rafters, and the torches flared wildly, as if the fortress itself was shaking.
Torv's hand flew to his sword. "What in the hells?"
Another explosion—closer, louder—cracked the air. Shouts—raw, panicked—erupted outside, followed by the roar of flames and the screech of collapsing steel.
Vaelin was already moving, his cloak snapping as he strode for the door.
"With me!" he barked, and the lieutenants surged after him, armor clanking, the map forgotten in the chaos.
The courtyard was a slaughterhouse. Smoke boiled thick, lit red by fires chewing through crates and corpses. Akerian soldiers stumbled through the haze, some clutching rifles that glowed faintly, others dragging comrades whose blood painted the stones.
The sea wind screamed, carrying the stench of charred flesh and burning metal. Vaelin burst into the open, Koren and Torv at his heels, and stopped dead, his gaze snapping to the sky.
It was clouded in smoke.
A falling airship was a burning husk, its hull fracturing like glass, black flames trailing as it plummeted toward the cliffs.
Another spun wildly, engines coughing sparks before a second blast tore it apart, raining molten debris across the fortress.
And there, flying gracefully in all the destruction, was a knight in all black armor… he had six black wings.
He was a Fallen.
Wings that cut the smoke like scythes, each feather seeming to drink the light. Red hair blazed brighter than the fires, whipping in the wind, and his black armor—seeming to radiate miasma—shimmered with an unnatural sheen. His eyes—one black, one white—burned as he darted through the airships, causing them to explode, a predator toying with prey.
He let out a sinister laugh, watching as the airships fell on the men trying to run for their lives, crushing them, and he simply smiled—a grin that stretched a little too much, from ear to ear.
That delight in watching human suffering, those six black wings, that black armor, that blood-red hair, and those eyes.
They belonged to only one Fallen.
Abaddon.
"Humans and their pathetic toys," Abaddon said, his voice seeming to echo so loudly despite being so high up in the air.
"You mortals and your clanking machines—such pride in things that break. Was this really how you planned to go against my emperor?"
He laughed mockingly and dove, wings folding as he tore through another airship's hull, emerging in a shower of sparks. The ship split, groaning, and crashed into the cliffs, shaking the earth.
"How presumptuous."
Vaelin's sword was out, its blue hum drowned by the din. "Abaddon," he growled, his voice thick with dread and fury.
Koren's face was bloodless. "The Fallen we heard of… here? How did word reach the capital so quickly?"
Torv spat, gripping his axe. "Doesn't matter how. He's here now... killing us."
But Abaddon wasn't alone. In the courtyard, death moved on foot.
Ivan the Death-Walker was a blur, moving so fast he seemed to flicker like a glitch in reality.
His daggers—long, curved, gleaming—twirled in his hands, dripping with blood. He didn't just kill; he carved through Akerian soldiers like cattle.
Three soldiers spotted him and bolted, boots slipping in the bloody mud, scrambling toward a pile of burning crates for cover. Ivan was on them before they took two steps—bizarrely fast, a shadow streaking across the ash-strewn stones.
He hit the first soldier, grabbing him by the shoulder and hurling him into a stack of barrels, wood splintering as the man crashed through, landing in a heap on the muddy ground, groaning.
Ivan didn't pause—his dagger slashed down, opening the soldier's throat in a spray of blood that splattered the broken barrels.
The second soldier was holding a rifle, screaming as he shot, but Ivan spun, daggers flashing in a blur—one sliced the bullets aimed at him, the next sliced the rifle in half, sparking metal.
The next instant, he slashed across the man's chest, tearing through armor and bone. Blood gushed, soaking the cracked stones, as the soldier staggered, clutching his guts that threatened to spill out the ruin of his broken ribs, and collapsed into a puddle of ash and gore.
The third soldier tripped, crawling desperately through the mud, his hands clawing at a shattered shield half-buried in debris.
Ivan suddenly appeared over him, silent. "Going somewhere? How foolish."
He stomped the man's back, pinning him face-down in the muck, and drove both daggers into his spine—once, twice, three times—each stab a wet crunch, blood bubbling up to mix with the dirt. The soldier twitched, then went still, his fingers sinking into the sludge.
Ivan gazed at him with utter cold detachment, as if he had killed an insect rather than a human.
He turned around, slowly walking toward the other men.