Day Ten

  The gate’s finally repaired. Traps beyond the buried charges have been set—not as fancy, but they’ll do. Some pitfalls. A few tripwires rigged to gun traps. No grenades, unfortunately.

  The villagers left after the mud dried. Something about “preparing for this month’s tide.” I thought they meant the rain, but maybe not. Maybe it’s something else. Another flood. Or maybe a tide of prosperity, peace, and eternal joy.

  Or death.

  I’ve kept up my training. Sparring every day. Refining every movement in Dreamer’s Curse. Even when I’m resting, I’m drilling it in my head:

  Attack. Deflect. Absorb. Retreat. Finisher.

  Over and over.

  This isn’t a style anymore—it’s part of me now.

  And I’ve never had more fun. The anticipation rattles in my bones. The thrill of it all—like a fever under the skin.

  ***

  Day Twelve

  Scouts just got back. Enemy’s two days out. Estimate: twenty-one hundred. Not bad.

  They’re hauling mortars—the regular kind. No mana-infused ones, if that even exists. Just straight-up gunpowder.

  Side note: why the hell do these guys have working mortars but haven’t figured out steam engines? Is coal rare here? But it’s used in gunpowder too. I guess mana changes how people solve problems.

  Anyway—those mortars? Pretty much useless unless they take down the ward grid.

  And if they manage that?

  We’re screwed anyway.

  ***

  Day Fourteen

  It’s dawn.

  A soft mist clings to the valley. Kinda chilly, but my heart’s burning hot. Two weeks of waiting was too long.

  Damn preparations.

  I need to crack some skulls.

  No—I’m kidding. Mostly.

  I’m up on the battlements now. Koln’s gone. Figures he won’t be helping.

  Alfrick stands beside me, calm as ever. The rest of the soldiers are posted along the walls, officers scattered between squad clusters to keep the line of command clean.

  Alfrick’s the keystone—he bridges everything. We split the four hundred thirty into twelve squads. Ten cover the walls. Two are waiting behind the gate.

  We’re aiming for victory outside the fortress. But we’ve planned for the worst. That’s the golden rule.

  As for me?

  Once we blow our little gifts—I’m sallying out.

  Because I want to.

  Alfrick can handle the rest. He’s probably more competent anyway.

  So overall?

  It’s a win.

  Luckily, I’ve already got my combat-ready clothes on—Koln repaired the scraps.

  I’m wearing the midnight-blue hooded cloak, the one with the big embroidered sun on the back—must be our family’s crest. There’s another smaller one just above the heart. The hood’s down, and I can feel the comforting pulse of mana woven into the fabric.

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  Underneath, I’ve got a woolen tunic and trousers—ash gray, same mana-infused material. Functional. Tough.

  On my feet: weathered brown leather boots. Also magically reinforced. Not pretty, but they work.

  In the distance, I hear bushes being cut. Something’s being dragged into place.

  It’s the hill where Koln and I perched before the assault.

  Seems I’m the only one catching the faintest whisper of sound—probably thanks to my mana. A soft clink. A shell sliding into a barrel. Then—

  Bang.

  Whistle.

  The rest of my humble army hears it now too. Heads snap toward the hill.

  Trees shake as mortar shells begin firing. What started as a speck in the sky is now unmistakably deadly.

  I track the first shell as it descends—fast.

  It hits.

  The ward flexes inward slightly, blue ripples shivering across the dome. But no cracks. Just pressure. Contained.

  Then the shell explodes.

  Still no breach. Just ripples.

  Good.

  Seems we won’t be blown to hell.

  At least not yet.

  I signal for Alfrick to get our generous marksmen ready for gift-giving.

  I’m betting they’ll charge after the shelling—failed or not. After all, we’re just a small, feeble force, right? Easy prey.

  Sure, some of them are going to die.

  But they’re fanatical.

  So who cares?

  If they think they can win, then it’s all worth it.

  Anything for Kretoria.

  Damn Critters.

  They pelt us with shells for about two hours—probably just making sure we’re serious about our ward.

  I was relieved when it stopped.

  Not because the ward was close to breaking—no, it held just fine.

  I was just getting tired of the fireworks.

  I want bloodworks.

  It’s deafeningly silent—only the breath of my killing machine of an army fills the air.

  I can’t contain my excitement.

  I probably have a problem.

  The soldiers look anxious, but more resolved than before. Stronger. Sharper.

  I think me—mostly Alfrick—really shaped them up.

  But like any good outsourcer, I take the credit anyway.

  I hear whistles bellow from the treeline surrounding the valley.

  “On my mark,” I say, grinning.

  Alfrick nods.

  There—on the path—the first soldier steps out, dressed in white. Bold move. Stands out like a sore thumb.

  Then two more. Then ten.

  They multiply with each breath from my uneasy machine.

  A tide of men surges into the valley.

  “Wait.”

  I hold the signal.

  Let them fill it. Let the basin brim.

  Once the valley’s properly saturated, we’ll start the gift-giving.

  In the center, someone’s exuding serious mana—empowering those around him.

  On the left flank, I spot a melee-focused attack-mage, blade out, mana flaring.

  And on the right?

  Of course.

  The same bastard who fled during our first meeting.

  They’re all charging into the valley now. A few take shots, but the ward catches every projectile.

  They’re brazen. Overconfident. Underestimating us.

  This looks like a third of their whole force—probably thinking it’s more than enough.

  The valley’s filling like an empty glass. But instead of water, it’s people.

  People ready to receive my generosity.

  It’s almost full.

  The gift-giving is going to be bigger than Christmas.

  “Now!”

  I shout it, and Alfrick launches the flare—bright and screaming through the mist. He barks the command through the communication stone, voice snapping down the line.

  Time to unwrap the fun.

  I take the first shot.

  Decided to bring a rifle with me today. My sword’s leaning against the battlements—too large to sheath.

  The crack of my rifle rings out.

  A heartbeat later, a volley of shots follows from the soldiers beside me. Bullets tear through the thin veil of mist, slicing across the valley.

  The enemy keeps charging—unaware of our little deception.

  Not that it’s complicated.

  The bullets reach the ground.

  Mine hits first.

  It doesn’t bury. It implodes—red-hot, flashing, vaporizing. A searing bloom of crimson detonates beneath them. The stones go off like hellflowers, one after the other, erupting across the valley.

  Soldiers vanish into dust. The earth craters. The valley shakes.

  It shakes so hard a few of my own men on the wall fall on their asses. The ward ripples with blue light, flickering from the force.

  The explosions ripple outward like a tidal wave—furious, brief and absolute.

  Ten seconds from trigger pull to gift received.

  Most of the foot soldiers are gone—scattered pieces or nothing at all.

  The melee mage is dead. The left flank’s gone.

  In the center, a small cluster of survivors cling to the central mage—still standing, barely.

  And on the right?

  The one that got away is floating again.

  Of course he is.

  With a grin, I toss the rifle to the ground and grab my trusty blade. I plant my feet on the edge of the battlements—a straight drop in front of me.

  Alfrick looks stunned. Guess I forgot to mention this part of the plan.

  “Alfrick, you take the lead.”

  Before he can respond—or protest—I’m gone.

  Open air. Fifty meters down.

  Blade in hand, flaring with lightning. Cloak whipping in the wind. Madman’s grin plastered across my face.

  I kick in a burst of wind magic—propelling myself even faster. The excitement’s erupting inside me like a storm ready to tear loose.

  I smash into the ground hard enough to crater it—dust blasting outward in a massive wave.

  Before it can settle, I bolt forward in a streak of lightning, tearing through the haze and making it part for me.

  I zip toward the central force—maybe fifty still standing. Most of them are small fry.

  But at the center stands the mage. The buffer. The linchpin.

  I don’t want him protecting anyone else.

  Especially not another mage.

  I’m nearly on them now. The survivors scramble to throw themselves in front of the mage. Some make it.

  Too bad.

  First form.

  My blade cleaves forward—blue-hot lightning clinging tight to the edge, humming with purpose.

  The first soldier steps up with a trench spade, trying to meet me in melee. Bold.

  But my reach is longer.

  My swing connects.

  Blue light erupts at the point of impact—a shield. Cracking under the pressure.

  But before it fully breaks, the soldier’s body is launched backward from the sheer force.

  Interesting.

  This mage doesn’t empower—he specializes in warding others.

  His flung body slams into the soldiers behind him, knocking them down like pins.

  No deaths yet.

  But more are on me now.

  I deflect. Absorb. Attack.

  Each strike sends bodies flying.

  I’ll have to bury them to finish—or eliminate the mobile ward.

  I choose the quicker option.

  I pivot and bolt through the gaps—aiming straight for Sir Shield’s neck.

  I’m on him now. The ones around me and behind are all aiming for mine.

  My blade lunges forward in a stab, blue-hot, lightning curling off the steel.

  It pierces forward—meets his personal shield—then slides away with a shriek of resistance.

  I press in.

  Too close for a sword.

  My left hand breaks free, crackling with raw lightning, sharpened to a point.

  I drive it toward his abdomen.

  Contact.

  His shield flares—the impact throws him backward, arcs of lightning snapping out like whips.

  They lash the soldiers nearby.

  And kill them.

  Interesting.

  He survived the blast—along with fifty others. Makes sense. He’s a specialist.

  Wards.

  But now I see the flaw.

  When I hit him, hard enough to matter, he has to redirect mana to save himself.

  And when he does?

  The others die.

  If he shields one soldier, the rest get left behind. He can’t cover everyone.

  Not at once.

  There’s only so much mana to go around—and even less when you’re panicking.

  I doubt he planned for someone like me.

  I grin.

  Guess who’s dying first.