At dawn, Oria exhaled.
A breath long held, sharp with terror, loosed itself in one trembling gust across the waking city.
The horizon did not bloom with light, but with shadow.
They came with the rising sun, the Fallen. Not in silence, but in thunder—an avalanche of war-born limbs pounding against the earth with cruel purpose. The ground shook beneath them. Windows rattled. Even the birds had long since abandoned the skies. From every watchtower, the alarm bells screamed in chorus, but it was the sound beneath the bells—the deep, bone-vibrating roar of thousands of snarling voices—that stole the breath of every soul that heard it.
The army of the Fallen had arrived.
Hundreds of them, maybe more. Hulking creatures of horned jaws and jagged tusks, standing nine feet tall, plated in hardened flesh and torn leathers reeking of decay. They moved with coordinated purpose, shoulder to shoulder in brutal formation. Every one of them was larger than a horse and radiated a killing intent that burned into the marrow.
And still, there were worse among them.
Larger still, armored in bone and rusted metal, stood a smaller contingent at the rear—silent, unmoving. Their presence parted the horde like generals commanding respect by gravity alone. The leaders. Their bodies swelled with grotesque musculature, their faces partially masked in ancient, ritualistic iron. They did not shout. They watched.
And the army moved forward.
Atop the city walls, commanders barked orders through magical amplifiers, rallying their units to hold fast. Koda stood not on the wall, but behind it, where the true battle would begin once the gates fell.
He was part of a designated flight unit—tasked with engaging the Fallen that made it through the initial defenses. A roving blade for the chaos to come.
And he had another charge. If Oria's outer defenses failed—if the wall was lost—then it would be Koda who would hold the inner line. A stone bridge crossing a dried ravine, positioned just before the field hospital on the second ring. A single chokepoint. If the enemy reached that place, if they breached the second ring, he was to hold them there.
Not delay. Not stall.
Buy time.
As much as he could.
He had stood beside that bridge earlier in the week. It was narrow, barely wide enough for three men to stand abreast. A good defense position—if the defender was willing to die there. The location chosen not for its tactical benefit alone, but because of what lay beyond it: the field hospital.
Where Maia would be.
Where she would not leave until the last patient was gone, and likely not even then.
Koda had said nothing at the time. Only nodded at the orders.
But now, standing in the shadow of the trembling wall, his hands tightening around the grip of his conjured blade—formed from the weight of his conviction—he resolved the truth of it.
He would not let them cross that bridge.
Not while he breathed.
Not while Maia still stood on the other side.
If the wall fell, if the city screamed, if the fires rose high enough to burn the sky itself—he would be the last stone between hell and everything he still cared to protect.
And so he watched, blade humming faintly with the weight of his oath, as the sea of monsters marched toward Oria, and the first boulders from the enemy's siege engines began to fly.
The wall didn't shield the sound.
It rang with it—held it, funneled it, and sent it echoing like a funeral bell through the city's bones.
From where Koda stood behind the gate, he could hear the wet shriek of tar boiling in the cauldrons above. The hiss as it was poured. The sudden silencing of monstrous voices as it scorched through flesh. He heard the creak and twang of heavy bowstrings, the dull thump of stones and alchemical flares launched from Oria's siege racks.
And then he heard the return fire.
A low whine—growing into a shriek—that culminated in a thunderous crack as one of the enemy's stones collided with the wall. Somewhere above, masonry shattered. A tower screamed. Then a body fell.
One of the guards.
He didn't see it. Only the aftermath—a limp form careening past his field of vision like a discarded puppet, slamming into the ground with a sound that made the back of his teeth ache.
Someone shouted for more tar.
Another screamed they were running low.
The air smelled of pitch and iron and something else—something warm and wet and wrong. A sour rot that didn't come from the wounded, but from the enemy pressing against the gates. As if the creatures outside weren't simply here to conquer, but to consume. Not in hunger for territory. But for something deeper.
More primal.
There were stories already, passed from unit to unit, of what they did to the dead. Of how the fallen among Oria's scouts hadn't been found with their weapons looted—but torn apart. Cleaned of flesh like beasts devouring prey. Bones shattered as though sucked for marrow.
The creatures didn't leave corpses.
They made room.
And now they pressed forward again.
Another wave hit the wall—this time a coordinated volley of thrown iron stakes, sharpened bones, crude axes, and heavy stones lobbed not for strategy, but sheer overwhelming volume.
The defenders staggered.
A squad to the east lost footing as their parapet crumbled, and Koda saw, over the lip of the rampart, the shape of one of the Fallen hurling itself up onto the wall. Not climbing—leaping, propelled by unnatural strength, driven by a need beyond warfare. Its jaws split open too wide, teeth too many, body twisted by the excess of its own strength as if its very muscle was a burden it wore with pride.
It landed amidst the guards like a meteor.
Then the screaming began.
A bell rang again—two short peals. Breach on the upper wall.
The gate shuddered beneath a new impact, not from stones now—but bodies. Hurling themselves forward, clawing and battering with reckless abandon. The iron creaked. Wood strained.
Koda stepped forward, his team falling in behind him without a word.
The flight unit.
They'd be the first line once the gates broke.
From beyond, he heard the gurgling howl of something that shouldn't speak, calling to its kind in a language that didn't need words. A command or perhaps a craving. He could feel it in his bones.
They weren't just trying to win.
They wanted in.