The scent of blood lingered in the cold night air, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt wood and sweat. The streets of the town were painted in death—bodies of Gregor's men lay where they had fallen, slumped against stone walls, sprawled across the cobblestones, their lifeblood seeping into the cracks. Torches flickered, their unsteady light casting twisted shadows, making the town feel more like a tomb than a sanctuary.
Adrian stood at the western quarter's barricade, his gloved fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the battlefield. They had held the town for now, but victory was temporary. Gregor was not the kind of warlord to accept defeat. He would be back, and he would be more dangerous than before.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant crackle of dying flames and the occasional groan of a wounded man. Behind him, his soldiers moved with heavy steps, some tending to their comrades, others reinforcing their defenses. Their faces, illuminated in the flickering light, were pale with exhaustion. Some wore expressions of grim determination, others of quiet horror. None of them spoke of it, but Adrian could see it in their eyes—the weight of what they had done, of what they had survived.
Footsteps approached from the dark, swift and deliberate. Adrian turned as Klaus emerged from an alleyway, his face hard.
"The scouts are back," Klaus said, his voice low. "Gregor's men have pulled back for now, but they aren't retreating. They're regrouping at the old mill outside the eastern gate."
Adrian's jaw clenched. "How many?"
"At least two hundred. Maybe more."
A force larger than before. Gregor had underestimated them in the first attack, but he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
Otto joined them, his sword still stained with dried blood. "We can't hold the town indefinitely," he said, his voice edged with concern. "We don't have the numbers."
Adrian already knew that. If Gregor launched a full-scale assault, their defenses wouldn't last. The walls were old, not built for war, and the enemy had the advantage of sheer numbers. They couldn't afford to be passive.
They needed an edge.
"We can't fight them head-on," Adrian said at last, his voice firm but calm. "They have the numbers, but we have the terrain. We use the town itself as a weapon."
Otto frowned. "You're suggesting we turn the streets into a battlefield?"
Adrian nodded. "Exactly. We make them pay for every inch they take. We control the flow of the fight, force them into kill zones, choke points. We make them bleed before they ever reach the town square."
Klaus smirked, his hands resting on the haft of his axe. "I like it."
They worked quickly, laying the foundations for their defense. The barricades at the main roads were reinforced, but they would not be their true line of resistance. Instead, Adrian had his men create a network of false choke points—walls of debris meant to funnel Gregor's soldiers into narrow alleyways where they would be easy prey.
Archers took to the rooftops, their quivers filled and ready. Barrels of oil were positioned along key streets, waiting to be set alight at the right moment, turning the town into a fiery death trap.
The civilians who could fight were given spears, knives, anything they could wield. Those who could not were ushered into the underground cellars of the town hall, hidden away from the slaughter that was sure to come.
But Adrian knew defenses alone wouldn't be enough. They had to strike first.
Before dawn, Adrian led a small force beyond the eastern gate. The cold air was sharp, biting through his cloak, but his focus was unshaken. Every step had to be precise.
Gregor's men were camped at the old mill, the fires of their camp burning against the darkened landscape. They were too confident, too sure of their coming victory.
That arrogance would be their undoing.
Adrian raised his hand in the signal.
The first arrows flew in silence, striking down the outer sentries before they could raise the alarm. Then, chaos erupted.
His men moved with lethal precision, striking from the shadows. Blades flashed, throats were slit, and bodies fell before they could even draw their weapons. The camp erupted into confusion, shouts of alarm breaking through the still night.
By the time the enemy realized what was happening, it was too late. Adrian's force had already pulled back into the treeline, leaving behind only the wreckage of their raid—burning tents, bodies littering the ground, the stench of death thick in the air.
It was not meant to destroy them.
It was a message.
Gregor would come, but now he would come enraged, reckless.
And that was exactly what Adrian wanted.
The sun had barely begun to rise when Gregor's forces emerged from the trees, a dark tide rolling toward the town.
Adrian stood atop the central watchtower, his eyes scanning the enemy formation. Their numbers had swelled overnight. Two hundred? No. Closer to three hundred now.
Klaus tightened his grip on his axe. "They're coming."
Adrian's expression remained unreadable. "Let them."
Gregor's men surged forward, roaring battle cries that shook the air.
But the streets of the town did not welcome them.
They became a labyrinth of death.
Arrows rained down from the rooftops, cutting down men before they could even breach the barricades. When they finally forced their way in, they found themselves funneled into narrow alleys, where Adrian's men struck with merciless efficiency.
Oil was ignited, turning pathways into raging infernos. The screams of the burning filled the air.
The enemy advanced, but they paid for every step with blood.
Gregor had wanted a battle.
Now he was trapped in one.