The weeks that followed were a blur of collapsing borders and endless work.
Ashford fell first. Then Halstead. Then the March of Blackwood. One by one, the outer territories gave way beneath the weight of the unified horde, their walls broken, their armies scattered, their nobles fleeing east with whatever they could carry.
Ravenhold became an island. The last fortress standing between the beasts and the empire's soft underbelly.
And I became its heart.
Not because I wanted to. Because there was no one else.
Every morning started before dawn, with me at the map table while Edward rattled off casualty reports and ammunition counts. Every afternoon was spent on the walls, watching the treeline, letting the soldiers see me, letting them remember why they were fighting.
Every evening brought a parade of supplicants: fleeing nobles who wanted protection without contribution, supply officers who needed decisions, scouts with news of movement in the dark.
