Night clung to the city like a shroud when Nyasha and her allies split their forces. The Covenant's anchors pulsed in the distance — four towering obelisks feeding their wards and tethering their armies to the siege lines. Break them, and the invaders' power would falter. Fail, and the Citadel would crumble within days.
Zara led the first strike, silent blades cutting into shadows. Kofi went with her, shield strapped and jaw set, though blood still seeped from his arm. Together they melted into the undercity tunnels, aiming to shatter the Covenant's supply caravans and the nearest anchor.
Nyasha and Taye remained at the wall. She felt the Covenant's presence pressing against her chest, suffocating. The obelisks hummed like teeth biting into the city's bones. The fires in her veins surged at the taste of their magic, begging to be unleashed.
Hours passed like heartbeats.
Then—an eruption. From the east, one anchor collapsed in a flash of light, its binding rune shrieking as Zara's strike team tore it down. The Covenant lines rippled, their wards flickering. For a heartbeat, the Citadel cheered.
But the reprieve was short.
The Covenant's answer came swiftly: a surge of reinforcements, drums and banners spilling across the plain. Their fury struck the walls with renewed force, a tide meant to drown resistance before more anchors could fall.
Inside, chaos reigned. Nyasha fought alongside Taye, flame clashing against shadow-forged magic. The fires clawed at her ribs, wild, unstable — every strike left cracks spidering across the stone. She remembered her father's warning: Power without discipline is destruction. But discipline was slipping like sand between her fingers.
A runner stumbled into the courtyard, blood staining his tunic. "Zara and Kofi… they destroyed the supply train, but the Covenant has sent a whole legion after them. They're cut off!"
Nyasha's heart lurched.
The Citadel groaned as another wave smashed against the gate. Smoke and sparks spiraled skyward.
They had struck first — but the Covenant's teeth had bitten deep in return.
Nyasha raised her hand, fire burning through her veins, her body trembling on the edge of surrender. Not yet, she told herself. Not yet.
But the siege was no longer outside the walls. It was within — tearing at her city, her people, her very control.
And she knew that when the walls finally gave way, only the three fires could decide what survived the storm.