The war drums had stopped.
No more pounding. No more howls. Just the quiet rasp of men and women, clutching their weapons behind crumbling walls, lungs burning, hearts trying to pretend they weren't afraid.
The silence was worse than the noise. It wrapped around Ashthorn Keep like a noose, heavy and waiting, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Up on the western parapet, where the stone had splintered from siege fire, Commander Thorne stood alone. Or rather—what was left of him stood there.
His name was a hollow thing now, barely more than an itch in the back of his skull. He couldn't remember who he'd been before the siege began. The System had scrubbed away the man and left only instinct behind, cold and sharp.
But even that was enough. Enough to know this wasn't over.
Not yet.
A faint flicker pulsed in the corner of his vision.
[System Notification]
Bloodline Trait Suppression: Lifted by 5%.
Instinct Calibration: Active.
Your presence now passively stabilizes nearby morale.
As if on cue, the air shifted. Below him, scattered through the ruined courtyard, the defenders moved a little slower, a little steadier. Twitching hands grew still. Whispers turned to low, iron-clad oaths. Even the wounded eased their groans, like some unseen hand had threaded steel through their bones.
But Thorne? He felt none of it. No fear. No thrill. Just the cold clarity of purpose.
The wind stirred the dying flames along the walls, and the scent of smoke and blood hung like a shroud.
"Commander." A voice cut through the quiet.
Thorne turned slightly. A young soldier—barely more than a boy—stood at his side, helmet under one arm, dirt-streaked sweat cutting paths through the ash on his face.
"Davrin," Thorne said flatly, the name surfacing from the haze.
The boy's lips tightened, his voice little more than a whisper. "They've stopped moving. Out there. They're just… waiting." He swallowed. "Like wolves."
Thorne's gaze drifted back to the dark hills beyond the walls. He couldn't see the Skarnlings, but he didn't need to. He could feel them. The way you feel lightning in the air before a storm.
"They're not wolves." His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. "They're surgeons. And we're on the table."
Davrin looked away, throat bobbing with the effort of swallowing his fear.
"Go. Make sure the oil reserves are ready. Western wall first." Thorne's tone didn't change, not even to soften the blow.
Davrin nodded and left without another word, boots crunching over broken stone.
The keep wasn't much more than a tomb now. Two hundred defenders, if even that. The rest had been buried under rubble or torn apart when the Skarnlings broke the outer gate on the first night.
Thorne's jaw flexed. He scanned the battered stone, the flickering torchlight playing shadows over the faces of the living. There was still a fight left in them, but only just.
A pale, sharp-faced militia captain approached, voice tight as a drawn bowstring.
"Commander… the oil stores won't last another night."
Thorne didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the eastern wall—the part most people weren't worried about. Not yet.
[System Notification]
Class Feature: Tactician's Pulse — Partial Activation.
Enemy Intent: Coordinated breach detected.
Estimated target: Eastern wall. 45 minutes.
The knowledge unfolded in his mind like a map drawn by invisible hands.
"Divert the reserves to the east wall," Thorne said, voice clipped but calm. "Stack anything heavy enough to stop a charge. Gravestones. Statues. Use them for cover."
The captain hesitated, clearly ready to argue. No scouts had reported movement on the eastern side. But something about Thorne's stillness — the way his gaze carved through the dark — stopped the words dead in his throat.
The man nodded and left, jaw clenched tight around his doubt.
Below, the defenders moved. Not fast. Not eager. But steady. Like they believed.
That was enough.
The hours passed. The quiet deepened.
Thorne stood alone on the east wall, gloved hand pressed against cold stone. The vibration beneath his palm wasn't sound — not yet — but he could feel the tension, like the wall itself was bracing for what was coming.
And then, finally, it came.
Not with the wild howls of starving beasts. No drums. No horns.
The Skarnlings came as shadows, pouring out of the treeline on all fours. Yellow eyes gleamed in the dark like dying stars. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Thorne straightened.
Tactician's Pulse Active.
Enemy movement pattern: Flank bait, concentrated central breach. Rear guard: Bone-armored elites. Estimated strategy: Exhaust outer walls, force collapse in close-quarters.
"Shields forward. Oil crews stand ready." His voice rang sharp and clean against the night.
The soldiers obeyed. Fear didn't vanish — but it no longer ruled them. The moment his command cut through the air, they locked into place like iron gears in a machine.
The horde surged forward, claws scraping stone, teeth snapping the air.
"Pour the oil," Thorne said when the first Skarnlings leapt.
Black liquid rained down the wall. A moment later, fire followed.
The night lit up with shrieks, flames rolling across fur and bone. The creatures burned, but still they climbed, and the defenders met them at the top, blades and spears catching the survivors mid-leap.
And then came the Bone-armored Skarnlings.
Thorne stood atop the wall, the wind whipping through his hair as he scanned the horizon. Suddenly, the ground trembled beneath him. The Bone-armored Skarnlings emerged from the darkness, their bones clinking as they advanced with a menacing purpose.
Thorne felt the rush of battle coursing through his veins as he drew his sword with a steely glint in his eyes. The clang of metal against bone filled the air as the first Skarnling climbed over the wall, its claws glinting in the moonlight. With a swift, calculated strike, Thorne pierced through its thick armor, sending a spout of black blood splattering across the ground.
More Skarnlings followed, their red eyes gleaming with bloodlust. Thorne moved with a dancer's grace, his sword slicing through the air in a deadly ballet of death. The clang of steel, the crunch of bone, and the screams of the dying mingled together in a symphony of chaos.
The battlefield was bathed in the red hue of the rising sun, casting long shadows over the carnage. Thorne fought with primal ferocity, his body covered in the blood of his enemies. Each strike was a testament to his skill and determination, each victory hard-earned but never in doubt.
As the last Skarnling fell, Thorne stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving with exertion. The ground was littered with broken bodies and pools of blood, a grim reminder of the price of victory. But in that moment, there was only the sweet taste of triumph as Thorne looked out over the horizon, ready to face whatever new challenges awaited him.
By dawn, the eastern wall was littered with black blood and broken bodies.
The surviving defenders looked to him — not with the wide-eyed relief of men saved by chance, but with the quiet, steady recognition of soldiers anchored by something unshakable.
The war wasn't over. But for one more night, they had endured.
The sun barely warmed the sky, bleeding pale orange over the ruined keep.
The silence returned, heavier now. The Skarnlings had retreated back to the tree line, but not out of defeat.
They were waiting.
Thorne stood atop the parapet, armor scorched and battered, eyes locked on the dark horizon. His mind was clear. His past was gone. The System had stripped it clean.
All that remained was the mission.
Mission Reminder: Defend the fortress. Outlast the siege. Victory at all costs.
And then the warlord arrived.
The creature stepped from the treeline with deliberate ease, taller than the others, its body wrapped in blackened bone plates fused with iron and flesh. No helm. Just a twisted, beast-like face, split by iron staples where its jaw should have been.
It raised one talon, long and sharp, and pointed directly at Thorne.
No roar. No words. Just a single, silent mark.
A predator recognizing another.
Behind him, Osric—the old, one-eyed sergeant who'd fought through more wars than most men had birthdays—appeared at his shoulder.
"Looks like you've got its attention," Osric muttered, voice dry as old leather.
The warlord lowered its claw, slowly. The Skarnlings didn't attack.
They just stood there, row after row, watching.
The real siege had begun. Not of walls. Of minds.
That night, the fortress settled into uneasy quiet. No sleep. Just waiting.
Thorne stood in the war room, maps scattered across the table, enemy positions etched into his mind like scars.
The warlord wasn't planning another brute-force charge. It wanted them to break themselves. To starve. To rot from the inside out.
But Thorne had no intention of waiting.
Osric arrived, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"They're spooked," the old sergeant said quietly. "Half the boys swear that thing's gaze froze their blood. Fear's setting in deep."
Thorne didn't answer at first. He left the maps, walked out into the courtyard, and moved among the men. Just walking. Saying nothing.
But wherever he passed, backs straightened. Eyes sharpened.
Oath Aura: Active.
Nearby allies gain +10% morale. Fear resistance increased.
It wasn't a speech they needed. It was presence. Certainty.
He returned to Osric, his voice calm but cold.
"Wake twenty volunteers. Silent weapons only. Before dawn, we strike."
Osric blinked, then cracked a slow grin.
"A sortie? You're planning to hit them before they even finish the noose?"
Thorne nodded once. "They think we're prey. It's time they learn otherwise."