(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man leaned forward in his chair, the firelight casting deep shadows across his weathered face. His voice dropped to a low, intimate rumble, as if he were sharing a secret he had kept for sixty years.
"Lyon," he said, "was a city of walls. Stone walls, high and thick, built by the Romans and strengthened by every king who had come after. They had protected the city from barbarians, from invaders, from the chaos of a collapsing empire. But they could not protect it from what was coming."
He paused, his eyes distant.
"They could not protect it from us."
— Memory —
The gates of Lyon appeared on the horizon like a wound in the landscape.
Aurelio had been walking for three weeks. His boots were worn through, his feet blistered and bleeding. The road had been a gauntlet of abandoned villages, poisoned wells, and the ever-present stench of death. But he had kept walking. They all had.
Nine of them now. Nine survivors, huddled together against the cold, against the plague, against the creeping certainty that they were walking into a trap.
"There she is," Riccio said, his voice hoarse. "The city of silk."
"It does not look very silky from here," Donata muttered.
She was right. The walls were scarred with the marks of siege engines; scorch marks from burning pitch, gouges from thrown stones, the dark stains of blood that had not yet washed away. The gates themselves were reinforced with timber and iron, and above them, on the battlements, figures moved; guards, watching, waiting.
"They know we are coming," Liam said.
"Of course they know. Charlotte's messenger reached them days ago."
"Then why are the gates still closed?"
Aurelio did not have an answer. He walked toward the gates, his hand raised in a gesture of peace.
"Hail!" he shouted. "We are friends! We have come to help!"
The figures on the battlements did not respond. They simply watched, their faces hidden behind helms and hoods.
"We are friends!" Aurelio shouted again. "Open the gates!"
A voice called down from above. It was a woman's voice, sharp and cold.
"The city is under quarantine. No one enters. No one leaves."
"We are not sick! We are here to fight the preacher!"
"The preacher is already here. His army surrounds the city. You are either his spies or his fools. Either way, you are not welcome."
Aurelio felt his temper flare. "I am Aurelio of the Weeping Grove! I fought the Cabal! I battled the Shade! I am a friend of Princess Charlotte! Open these gates, or I will tear them down myself!"
A silence. Then, the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn.
The gates swung open, just wide enough for a single person to pass.
"Come in," the voice said. "But your weapons stay here."
"Not a chance," Gerald growled.
"Then you can stay out there with the preacher's army. Your choice."
Aurelio looked at his companions. Cecilia was pale, her hand on Elara's shoulder. Liam was calm, his sword still sheathed. Donata was scowling, her forge hammer clutched in her hand. Riccio was scanning the battlements, his bow ready. Gerald was gripping his axe, his knuckles white.
"We go in," Aurelio said. "We surrender our weapons. We find Charlotte. We figure out what comes next."
"And if they betray us?"
"Then we die. But we die inside the walls, where it is warm."
The courtyard beyond the gates was a staging ground for a siege.
Supplies were stacked in neat piles; barrels of grain, casks of water, bundles of arrows. Soldiers moved with purpose, reinforcing the walls, tending to the wounded, sharpening their blades. The air smelled of smoke and sweat and the copper tang of blood.
A tall woman in armor approached them. Her face was hidden behind a helm, but her eyes were visible; cold, grey, assessing.
"You are Aurelio?"
"I am."
"I am Captain Renaud. Commander of the city's defenses. Charlotte told me to expect you."
"Where is she?"
"In the cathedral. She is praying. Or arguing with her brother. It is difficult to tell the difference."
"Take us to her."
Captain Renaud studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded.
"Follow me. But if anyone so much as sneezes, I will have you all thrown in the dungeons."
The cathedral of Lyon was a soaring monument of stone and glass, its spires reaching toward the sky like fingers grasping for salvation. The interior was dim, lit only by candles and the pale light filtering through stained glass windows. The air smelled of incense and old wood and the faint, cloying sweetness of death.
Charlotte knelt before the altar, her head bowed, her hands clasped. She was dressed in simple clothes, her hair unbound, her face bare. She looked older than Aurelio remembered; thinner, harder, her eyes shadowed by grief and exhaustion.
"Charlotte," he said, his voice echoing in the vast space.
She did not turn. "You came."
"I came."
"I did not think you would."
"Neither did I."
She rose and turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her gaze was steady.
"Thank you," she said. "For everything."
"Do not thank me yet. I have not done anything."
"You came. That is enough."
They embraced; a brief, awkward gesture that spoke of old wounds and older affections.
"Armand is in the palace," Charlotte said, pulling away. "He is meeting with his advisors. They are trying to decide whether to surrender or fight."
"Surrender to Godbrand?"
"Surrender to anyone. They are desperate, Aurelio. The city is starving. The plague is inside the walls. Godbrand's army is at the gates. And Nero is marching north, burning everything in his path."
"Then we fight."
"We cannot fight everyone."
"Then we choose our battles. Godbrand first. He is the immediate threat. Nero can wait."
"And if Nero reaches the city before we defeat Godbrand?"
"Then we fight two battles. Or we die trying."
Charlotte smiled; a thin, weary expression. "You have not changed."
"Neither have you."
The palace was a smaller, more intimate version of the cathedral; stone walls, high ceilings, the smell of old money and older secrets. Armand sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his advisors. He looked up when Aurelio entered, his eyes widening.
"Grove-keeper," he said. "You are alive."
"Barely."
"We heard rumors. The Shade. The plague. The preacher. We did not know what to believe."
"Believe everything. And then believe worse."
Armand gestured to a chair. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
The discussion lasted for hours.
Godbrand's army was larger than anyone had anticipated. Thousands of followers, armed with whatever they could find; pitchforks, scythes, axes stolen from abandoned farms. They were not soldiers, but they were driven by a faith that made them fearless.
"They have been gathering for months," Captain Renaud reported. "Every village they pass, they recruit. The desperate, the broken, the lost. He gives them purpose. He gives them hope. He gives them someone to blame."
"And what does he want?" Aurelio asked.
"He wants Lyon. He wants France. He wants the world. He says that the plague is God's judgment, and that he is God's instrument. He says that anyone who resists him is resisting the will of heaven."
"He is mad."
"Perhaps. But madness can be contagious."
Armand leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "We have considered all options. Surrender. Negotiation. Evacuation. None of them are good."
"Then we fight."
"We cannot win a straight battle. His army is larger. His followers are fanatical. Our soldiers are tired and outnumbered."
"Then we do not fight a straight battle. We fight a crooked one. We use the city's defenses. We use the sewers. We use the rooftops. We turn every street into a killing ground."
Armand looked at Charlotte. She nodded.
"Do it," Armand said. "You have command of the defense. Captain Renaud will assist you. Do whatever you need to do. Just... do not let him win."
— Present —
The old man leaned back in his chair. The fire had died completely, and the room was cold, but he did not seem to notice.
"We had three days to prepare," he said. "Three days to fortify the walls, to train the militia, to say goodbye to the people we loved. And then, on the fourth morning, Godbrand's army appeared on the horizon."
He looked at the Scholar.
"They came at dawn. Thousands of them. And at their head, riding a white horse, was the Prophet himself."
He paused.
"Chapter 41 ends here. Chapter 42 begins with a siege. And the siege began with a single word."
He leaned forward, his voice a whisper.
"Surrender."
The Scholar's quill scratched across the parchment. The room was silent except for the sound of writing and the distant cry of a bird.