CHAPTER 217: SIEGE OF WINDVEIL

The sun rose over WindVeil, but the light was thin and cold, as if even the sky knew what was coming. From the top of the wooden palisade, Sera’s eyes narrowed at the dark smear on the horizon. It was moving — growing. The low rumble beneath her feet told her what she already feared.

"They’re here..." she whispered.

Praise stood beside her, pale but resolute. Belle, the white-furred hound, pressed close to Praise’s legs, teeth bared, hackles raised.

War horns bellowed across the plain. Black-and-gold banners came into view, snapping in the wind above a sea of armored mercenaries. At their head rode a figure in silver and crimson armor, spear in hand, eyes sharp as a hawk’s — Astrid.

The gates below groaned shut, thick timber beams locking into place. Men and women gripped spears, swords, and bows, shifting nervously. The village had seen skirmishes before, but never this.

Astrid slowed her horse at bow range, raising her weapon high. "WindVeil," her voice carried unnaturally far, the Scale of Obedience at her waist shimmering faintly. "Lay down your arms, and you may yet live. Resist... and you will kneel before me one way or another."

The defenders answered with the twang of bowstrings.

Arrows cut through the morning air — and the mercenary front line lifted shields in perfect formation. The volley clattered harmlessly off metal.

Astrid smiled. "Advance."

The enemy surged forward.

Sera shouted, "Loose again! Aim for the gaps!"

The second volley drew blood, but the mercenaries were relentless. Soon they were at the gates, rams slamming into the wood with bone-jarring thuds.

Then Astrid moved.

She dismounted in one fluid motion, her spear spinning to deflect a desperate arrow. A leap — and she was over the outer barricade. The first defender she met barely had time to raise his sword before her spear punched clean through his chest. She ripped it free, pivoted, and swept the weapon low, severing another man’s leg before impaling him through the ribs.

The Scale of Obedience pulsed with a hungry glow.

A squad of five tried to box her in. Astrid twirled the spear, the polished shaft blurring. She drove the butt of the weapon into one man’s gut, spun, and slammed the blade through another’s throat. The others faltered — she flowed between them like a storm given shape, every movement efficient and final.

"Hold the line!" Sera’s voice cracked as she drew her wind-forged sword, slicing down a mercenary who made it onto the wall.

Praise darted forward, dragging an injured fighter away from the melee. Belle lunged at a soldier’s leg, tearing through chainmail with a growl.

Astrid’s eyes found Sera across the chaos. "So... you’re the one keeping his seat warm." She swept a spear thrust through another defender without looking. "Tell me, girl... how long will you last without him?"

Sera tightened her grip on her sword. "Long enough to put you in the dirt."

Astrid’s grin widened — and she raised her spear high. "Second surge!"

The gates shuddered and splintered as a wave of heavily armored mercenaries poured through the breach. The defenders’ line wavered. The air filled with the clash of steel, screams, and the iron smell of blood.

Astrid waded into the courtyard like a queen reclaiming her throne. She was unstoppable — each strike of her spear another life snuffed out.

Sera’s village was moments from breaking.

And then — the air above the square rippled. Reality itself tore with a sound like shattering glass.