Warriors waited in tense silence at their designated alleys, ready to strike when the next orders came. It was all reaction—adjusting to the ever-shifting chaos of battle. But reacting was easier said than done. Daenys drew in a slow, steadying breath, trying to calm her fraying nerves.
"They're holding well," Tengri observed quietly, his tone unreadable.
"Drop the next batch," Daenys commanded, her voice sharp. It was early, but she couldn't risk the hesitation of those who might not react quickly enough.
Tengri nodded and did as instructed, pouring the next bag of dye over the edge of the belfry. As the thick liquid spilled down the sides of the building, more traps were sprung below. Rocks and weapons rained down from the rooftops as the Estil warriors struck from above. The enemy formation fractured further, splitting into smaller, more vulnerable groups.
This was working. They could do this. Daenys opened her mouth to give the next signal, but a guttural roar tore through the air, shattering the rhythm of the battlefield.
Her head snapped toward the sound, just in time to see one of the rooftop units crumble in disarray. A monstrous shadow descended—a wyvern, its gray-scaled body coiled with brutal muscle. Its serpentine claws ripped through tiles as its wings slammed down on the Estil warriors, scattering them like leaves in a storm. Men were hurled from the roof, crashing to their deaths on the streets below.
"Shit," Daenys spat under her breath, gripping the edge of the belfry. Her eyes locked on the creature as it landed, its size dwarfing even the warhorses of Astad. A guttural cry escaped her as she grabbed the orange dye and hurled it over the side. The bright liquid splattered down the tower, signaling a battlefield-wide warning: something was amiss.
"A damn wyvern," she cursed, her voice tight with frustration.
Tengri's hand shifted to the hilt of his sword. "The rider will come soon. Once they realize you're the one giving the orders, they'll aim for the belfry."
"Then we best prepare," Daenys snapped. Tengri let out a low hum of acknowledgment.
She worked quickly, pushing more dye over the sides as the sounds of battle grew louder below. She couldn't stop—not yet. Orders still needed to be sent, signals given. Every moment counted. Her eyes flicked back to the wyvern as it crushed yet another rooftop under its weight. Its massive body, only slightly larger than a warhorse, seemed impossibly powerful. Its tail lashed out, smashing through walls and scattering rubble onto the streets below.
Estil warriors scrambled to avoid the creature's onslaught, but several were swept from the rooftops, sent hurtling to the ground. A few brave Reavers leapt from the heights to attack the beast, but its powerful wings beat them back, tossing them like ragdolls.
"We need to kill that thing," Daenys hissed through clenched teeth, watching as the wyvern's rampage pushed her warriors further back.
The creature landed on another rooftop, its claws sinking into stone as it roared, a deafening sound that shook the air. Its tail swung again, obliterating another portion of the city as both Estil and Astad soldiers fell victim to the debris. Rubble tumbled into the streets, crushing those unlucky enough to be caught beneath it.
Daenys reached for another bag of dye, this one a thick silver. She shoved it over the edge, the gleaming liquid sliding down the belfry walls like molten metal. It was a deliberate move—a lure. She needed the wyvern's attention.
"Tengri, ring the bell!" she ordered.
Tengri moved without hesitation, striking the massive bell with all his strength. Its deep toll reverberated across the battlefield, a sound both mournful and defiant. It was a signal to the Estil warriors below—a call to regroup, to make their final stand.
The wyvern's head jerked toward the sound, its baleful eyes narrowing on the belfry. With a guttural growl, it launched itself into the air, its wings kicking up clouds of dust and debris as it turned toward the tower.
"Better move before it flattens us," Daenys muttered, already making her way down the stairs.
Tengri lingered for a moment, his hands reaching for the wrappings over his eyes. He whispered a prayer under his breath. "I understand now the depths of sentience's depravity. My eyes awaken to the horrors of that empty abyss. Totallis, protect me with your glorious sight."
With a single pull, he tore the wrappings free, revealing six baleful eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. He turned toward the wyvern. "This is a battle fought by mortals to appease the gods. And it will take divine intervention to bring down a descendant of the dragons."
Daenys let out a dry laugh, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Drema will watch over us, I'm sure."
Tengri inclined his head. "We can only hope."
The two descended the belfry at speed, weaving through the streets as the wyvern slammed into the tower above them. The structure groaned under the force, stones cracking and splintering as its claws tore through the golden dome. The belfry tilted precariously, then collapsed in a cloud of rubble and dust.
"Glad we weren't standing on that," Daenys muttered.
"Wyverns are the reason Astad is so feared," Tengri said tersely, his voice heavy with grim respect.
Daenys rolled her eyes. "I can see why." Above them, the wyvern roared again, the sound sending chills through even the most hardened warriors.
They pushed forward, weaving through the chaos until they reached the final line of defense—the Pickette. There, Reman was already issuing commands, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Sengus, ready your bows! Aim for the beast. We'll kill it with a thousand cuts if we have to! Spears, form up! Hold the chokepoint!"
Daenys approached him, her steps brisk but steady. "We slowed the cavalry as long as we could," she reported.
Reman nodded. "Good. From here on, this is my domain."
Tasha dropped from a nearby roof, wiping blood from her face with a grin. "A wyvern, huh? Those bastards really brought a wyvern. This'll be a fine hunt."
"Focus," Daenys snapped. "The enemy will be upon us any moment. Get the men into position."
"As you command, Gahkar," Reman said, bowing his head slightly.
The words sent a ripple through the warriors around her. A Deathless had called her Gahkar. It was a title that carried immense weight—a name for a leader of Estil, for someone who could unify the warbands. The men stared at her, waiting, their morale balanced on the edge of her next decision.
Her chest tightened. The expectation was suffocating. This wasn't what she wanted. All her life, people told her she was destined to lead, but all she had ever wanted was to care for her little sister. To keep Nalla safe. Leadership was a burden, not a gift. Yet here she was, standing at the center of their hopes and fears.
"If we take the Pickette," she said finally, her voice steady despite the chaos within her, "then I will claim the title of Gahkar."
It was enough for now. It had to be.