The mood inside the great hall of Hassel's central keep was somber. The heavy stone walls, stripped bare to make room for more maps, made the room feel like a tomb, which certainly didn't help.

  The generals and commanders of the loyalist forces sat around a long table, and the tension was so thick it seemed to hang in the air like smoke from a poorly vented hearth.

  Jeremiah leaned against the far wall, silently observing the meeting. Being the youngest in the room, he had no formal seat among the war council, but his presence had been earned with blood. His victory over Weiss' squire had proven his cunning and resolve. It also granted the army enough time to prepare Pepperhof so they could retreat from what would have been a death trap.

  For now, Count Pollus seemed content to keep him as an adjutant and occasional confidant, but everyone knew he was destined for greater heights.

  That is if I survive long enough to get there.

  He observed without drawing attention to himself, noting every gesture and expression. The biggest change from the last meeting was that the generals wore their fatigue plainly. Their faces were lined with worry, and their movements were stiff from too many sleepless nights. They had all known Treon’s airship had been taken down, but seeing it retrofitted and flying against them was a sight they wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

  "Our Air Force was supposed to hold the skies," General Raldir muttered, gripping a goblet so tightly that Jeremiah wondered if the enchanted silver would bend. "And now it's gone. Gone! The pride of the duchy was defeated in just a few hours! What are we supposed to do with a handful of Griffin Knights? They can't even take to the sky without being annihilated by the enemy's artillery.

  “Obviously, we’ll keep them in reserve to protect the sky above the citadel," another gaunt general shot back, taut with irritation. "Unless you have some brilliant idea to conjure another fleet out of thin air."

  Raldir's face darkened, but Count Pollus raised a hand before he could respond.

  "That's enough," he said, ending the row. He was seated at the head of the table with his hands steepled beneath his chin. The flickering light from the chandelier above cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his features. He had lost weight during the campaign, and not because of a change in diet. "We all know what's at stake here. Sniping at each other won't change the situation."

  Jeremiah's respect for Pollus was grudging but real. The Count was a master of control, always keeping his emotions in check. Even now, when his city teetered on the edge of collapse, his voice remained steady, his demeanor composed. He didn't often intervene directly, but when he did, everybody listened, even in such a dire situation.

  A younger, more hot-headed commander dared to voice what everyone else was thinking. "What we need to know is when the Kingdom's forces will relieve us. With the Great Traitor and his mistress leading the charge, we can't hold out much longer on our own."

  This is especially true when our artillery is being moved away from the walls. The wards will fail within a day or two, but everyone already knows that.

  All eyes turned to Pollus. Jeremiah watched the count closely, noting the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped against the table for just a fraction of a second before stilling.

  "The Kingdom's forces are finished mustering," he said evenly. "They will march soon."

  It was the answer everyone wanted to hear, but it wasn't enough, and it wasn't even the whole truth. Jeremiah knew that much from the way Pollus stared straight ahead. He didn't betray the Count's confidence, though. The older man had told him only days ago that the army was mustering, to be sure, but it was deliberately taking its time. If help was coming, it wouldn't be in time to save Hassel.

  Whether the King or the Prime Minister is the culprit, it is evident that they don't want to deal with local forces. This is the perfect opportunity for them to take Hetnia and divide it among themselves.

  The room fell into a heavy silence. The generals exchanged glances, their earlier arguments forgotten in the face of this uncertain promise.

  "We need to prepare for the worst," General Raldir said at last, eyes hooded. "If the inner wards fall—"

  "They won't," Pollus interrupted sharply. "The citadel's defenses are stronger than anything they've faced before. Let them waste their resources against our walls. It will cost them dearly."

  Jeremiah admired Pollus's confidence, even if he didn't entirely share it. The Hero's reputation alone was enough to unnerve even the most seasoned warriors, and the Mistress of Shadow had repeatedly shown that she was beyond their ability to handle.

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  The meeting dragged on for another hour as the generals debated strategies and contingency plans. Jeremiah remained silent throughout, knowing his place. When the council finally adjourned, the commanders filed out one by one, grim-faced.

  Once the room was nearly empty, Jeremiah approached Pollus. The Count sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

  "Do you think we have a chance?" Jeremiah asked quietly, devoid of accusation.

  The words hung in the air. For a heartbeat, Pollus didn't move, and Jeremiah's stomach twisted. He'd grown bolder over the harsh months of this campaign, but his place in the hierarchy hadn't truly changed. He was still barely above a commoner, elevated by skill and necessity, and Pollus—Count Pollus, High Noble of the realm—had every right to strike him down for such insolence.

  But instead of anger, Pollus sighed wearily. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as his gaze lifted to meet Jeremiah's.

  "Do you want the truth?" the Count asked, his voice low and measured.

  Jeremiah nodded, unsure of what else to say.

  Pollus leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "No," he said simply. "We don't."

  The bluntness of the answer caught Jeremiah off guard, and for a moment, he forgot his place entirely. "Then why—?"

  "Why keep fighting?" Pollus finished for him. "Why keep these men and women clinging to hope when we're surrounded, outmatched, and abandoned?"

  Jeremiah said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

  The Count reached for a decanter of wine sitting forgotten at the corner of the table. He poured two glasses, swirling the deep crimson liquid to aerate it, and slid one across the table toward Jeremiah.

  "Sit," Pollus said, the command softened by the fatigue in his voice.

  Jeremiah hesitated. Sharing a drink with a High Noble was a breach of every custom he'd ever known, but his superior didn't seem to care. After a moment, Jeremiah pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

  Pollus took a long sip of his wine before speaking again. "The truth is, Jeremiah, we've been left to die. The King has more pressing concerns than saving Hassel, and the Duke won’t intercede on our behalf, having been promised complete control over the province. He'll let us bleed out here and waste as much of Weiss’s forces trying to take the citadel. I have even been given the order to raise the blood wards if I feel it is needed.”

  The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, and for a moment, Jeremiah saw the man behind the title: a leader burdened by his own liege's absolute incompetence and who had been set against impossible odds. No matter their confidence at the campaign's beginning, the Royal Court should have known better than to leave them alone against the Hero, ragtag army or not.

  Jeremiah was willing to concede that no one could expect Weiss to raise a competent fighting force out of slaves and broken men. But the people who had seen the man obliterate the forces of the Void couldn't have believed Hetnia's local troops would be enough. Not without debilitating losses, at least. A few dozen airmen and paladins were certainly not enough to change the balance.

  "Then why not surrender?" Jeremiah asked cautiously. They were already beyond treason anyway. At this point, he needed to know where things stood if he wanted to survive.

  Pollus's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Surrender to the revolutionaries? To Weiss? And what—throw myself at their mercy, hoping they'll grant me a quick death?" He shook his head. "No. If we're to die, let it be a good death. Let Hassel stand as a symbol of loyalty and duty, even if the King has forgotten what that means."

  Jeremiah took a sip of his wine, the rich flavor doing little to calm his racing thoughts. Pollus's resolve was admirable in its way, but Jeremiah couldn't share it. He'd fought and bled for this city, but he wasn't ready to throw his life away for a cause that no longer seemed winnable.

  Still, he masked his thoughts behind a carefully neutral expression. "A good death," he echoed, raising his glass.

  Pollus clinked his glass against Jeremiah's, the gesture oddly informal for a man of his station. "To the walls of Hassel and the men who'll help them hold."

  There was something in his tone as he said that that made Jeremiah's hair stand on the back of his neck. Pollus never seemed like someone ready to throw his life away, not without making a good attempt before. That he was being so passive should have been a sign that his will had been broken, but Jeremiah wasn't so naive.

  No, the old man is planning something. Considering how many thousands died at his hands during his career, it's likely to be truly heinous if he's not sharing it.

  That meant he needed to plan his next steps quickly. Jeremiah didn't want to get caught up in Pollus's plans.

  They drank in silence for a while, seemingly enjoying the moment. Jeremiah spent the time considering his options. His connections to the capital were tenuous but not nonexistent. If he could leverage them, perhaps there was still a way to escape this doomed city.

  However, he'd need to find the contact. If he hadn't already fled.

  But before he could lose himself entirely in his plans, Pollus spoke again.

  "Don't waste your breath hoping for salvation," the Count murmured. He didn't look at Jeremiah, his gaze fixed on the map. "No elite are coming to save us. I know for a fact that a team of assassins—the Kingdom's best—was sent after Weiss."

  Jeremiah felt the blood drain from his face.

  "They failed," Pollus continued, keeping his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "And not just failed—they were obliterated. That man destroyed one of our airships with a single swing of his blade. Do you truly believe the King has anyone left who could tip the scales against a monster like that? No, those with enough power to face Weiss are too independent to coerce, and they know better than to fight for a lost cause."

  Jeremiah swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his glass. The Count's words left no room for doubt. Weiss was a force beyond comprehension. And if the King's finest couldn't stop him, what chance did anyone else have?

  Pollus finally turned his gaze to Jeremiah, his eyes sharp despite his exhaustion. "We're on our own, kid. Whatever hope you're clinging to—let it go. Focus on what's in front of you. Do your duty well, and don't waste time."

  Jeremiah nodded, keeping his expression carefully blank.

  He couldn't afford to let go of hope—not yet. If there was even the slightest chance of escape, he had to take it.

  He drained the rest of his wine and stood, setting the glass back on the table. "I'll see to the preparations for the retreat from the outer walls, then."

  Pollus waved a hand in dismissal, already turning his attention back to the map.

  Jeremiah left the chamber, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The cold night air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did little to calm the fire that had settled in his veins.

  The Hero was unstoppable. The King had abandoned them. Hassel was doomed.

  But Jeremiah wasn't ready to die—not yet.