Casimir found his men in the barn.

  It was a drafty, cavernous structure that smelled of old hay, horse manure, and nervous sweat. The wagon was parked in the center, guarded by Silas and Jarek, who stood with drawn weapons. The rest of the "Broken Legion" were huddled around a small brazier, sharpening weapons and checking armor.

  The mood was grim. They had seen the women. They had felt the hostility. They knew they were unwelcome guests in a house that was burning down.

  Casimir strode in, the heavy iron key clutched in his hand.

  "Attention!" Kaelen barked.

  The men scrambled to their feet. They looked tired, their faces pinched with cold, but they stood straight.

  "At ease," Casimir said. He walked to the center of the circle, looking each man in the eye.

  "We have a plan," Casimir announced. "And it’s a stupid one."

  A ripple of nervous laughter went through the group.

  "The Orcs are attacking tonight," Casimir said. "They are hitting the East Wall. They have Trolls. They have magic."

  He let that sink in. He saw Davin swallow hard. He saw Merrick’s hand twitch.

  "The locals," Casimir continued, "think we are useless. They think we are broken men sent here to die. They think we are just more meat for the grinder."

  He paced the circle.

  "But tonight, we are going to show them the difference between a farmer and a soldier. Tonight, we aren't defending the wall. We are blowing it up."

  Heads snapped up. Kowalski grinned, a massive, toothy expression that split his beard.

  "Blowing it up, my Lord?" the blacksmith rumbled.

  "We are creating a breach," Casimir explained. "We are inviting them in. And when they step through, we are going to unleash hell."

  He turned to the blacksmith.

  "Kowalski. I need you to rig the charges. Unstable mining powder. Can you make it directional? I want the blast to go out, not in."

  "I can tamp it with wet clay," Kowalski nodded, his mind already working the problem, his hands moving in the air as he visualized the build. "Shape the charge like a cone. Pack the back with stones. It’ll take the legs off anything standing in the doorway without bringing down the roof."

  "Good. Do it. Make it nasty."

  He turned to Merrick.

  "Merrick. You're on the roof. I need you to lead the fire team. When the signal comes, you light up the kill-box. Can you hold your nerve if a Troll screams at you?"

  Merrick looked at his shaking hand. He closed his eyes for a second, then made a fist. The shaking stopped. "If I have a target, my Lord, I don't hear the screams."

  "Excellent."

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  He looked at Boras and Kaelen.

  "You two are with me. We hold the choke point. If anything survives the blast, we put it down. Shields up. No heroics. We hold the line until they break."

  He looked at the rest of them. Krol, Piotr, Silas, Davin.

  "The rest of you... you are the bucket brigade. Oil. Pitch. Anything that burns. You keep the archers supplied. You keep the fires roaring. If an Orc gets past the line, you kill it. You are the last defense for the women in the Keep."

  Casimir stopped pacing. He stood in the firelight, the wolf fur on his arm bristling.

  "They call us the Broken Legion," Casimir said softly. "They think we are refuse."

  He drew his sword. The steel gleamed in the firelight—rusted, pitted, but sharp.

  "Let’s show them that broken glass cuts deeper than a polished blade."

  "Aye!" Kowalski roared, raising his hammer.

  "For Blackwood!" Davin shouted, his voice cracking but loud.

  "Move out!" Casimir ordered. "We have three hours until moonrise."

  The sun died behind the mountains, and the world turned gray.

  Casimir stood on the ramparts of the East Wall, watching the tree line. The wind had died down, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

  The mist began to rise.

  It didn't come from the river. It seeped out of the forest floor, a thick, unnatural white fog that curled around the tree trunks like spectral fingers. It crept forward, swallowing the ground, inching toward the walls. It didn't move with the wind; it moved against it.

  "Here it comes," Roza whispered, standing beside him. She had a notebook open, but she wasn't writing. She was gripping the parapet until her knuckles were white. "The Shaman's cloak."

  "It’s thicker than normal fog," Casimir noted. "Heavier. It clings."

  "Magic," Roza agreed.

  Casimir watched the white wall of mist devour the tree line. He thought of Kasia’s words. Breeding stock. Brood-farm. He looked at Roza—her ink-stained fingers, her severe braid, her stubborn refusal to be terrified. She was a creature of libraries and logic, standing on a wall that was about to be hit by a nightmare.

  He reached into his belt and drew a heavy, jagged rondel dagger. It wasn't a soldier's sidearm; it was a mercy blade.

  He held it out, hilt-first.

  "Roza."

  She looked at the steel, then up at him. She didn't ask what it was for. The implication hung in the freezing air between them, heavier than the fog.

  "If they get past me," Casimir said, his voice low and rough, "if the wall falls... do not let them take you alive."

  Roza stared at the weapon. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached out, her fingers brushing against his leather glove. The cold metal seemed to ground her. She took the dagger, testing its weight, and slid it into her belt next to her ledger.

  Then she looked him in the eye. The fear was there, shimmering behind her gray irises, but beneath it was something solid. A calculation she had made and accepted.

  "I won't use it, Casimir," she said.

  "You might have to," he warned.

  "No," Roza said, her voice finding its steel. "I won't use it because you aren't going to let them pass. You solved the puzzle. You broke the pattern."

  She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his, standing firm against the parapet.

  "I am auditing a victory tonight, Lord Kovac," she whispered. "Make the numbers work."

  Casimir looked at her. He nodded, a grim promise sealing the moment.

  "I'll balance the books, Auditor," he said.

  Below them, in the dark cabins, the trap was set. The explosives were buried in the mud, hidden beneath innocuous piles of straw. The oil was slick on the cobblestones, shimmering in the gloom. The archers were prone on the roofs, their arrows wrapped in oil-soaked rags, their breath held.

  And out in the mist, something moved.

  A sound broke the silence.

  Thump.

  It was the sound of a heavy drum.

  Thump. Thump.

  It was joined by a voice—a deep, guttural chanting that seemed to vibrate in the stones of the wall. It wasn't a war cry; it was a rhythmic, pulsing drone.

  ...break... break... eat...

  Casimir felt the vibration in his boots. He looked back at the Keep. The rune-carved pillars were too far away to see, but he imagined them humming in the dark, responding to the enemy's song.

  He drew his sword.

  "Light the torches," Casimir ordered.

  The signal fire flared to life.

  The Siege of Blackwood had begun.