The candle atop its bronze stand flickered weakly, casting a wan halo of light that struggled against the shadows clinging to the corners of the stone chamber. At the center stood a polished wooden table, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Two chairs faced one another across its breadth—one occupied by Lord Asher, the other by General Clegane.
Clegane exhaled slowly, the weight of weeks pressed into that single breath. "Had it not been for your timely arrival, Castle Black would have fallen," he said, voice low and edged with fatigue. "The Dominion is balanced on a blade's edge. House Wyvern attacks from the northeast border—they've already taken two cities. Castle Black now stands between them and the rest of the domain."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as though even speech was a burden. "And from the southeast, House Intis has invaded. They've seized Red Marsh—the city that feeds us. Rice, wheat, corn—gone. We've bled ourselves trying to reclaim it, but the cost in men..." He paused, jaw tightening. "Too many to count."
A silence followed, heavy and complete.
"I shouldn't be saying this," he added grimly, "but if Castle Black had fallen, the rest of the Dominion would have followed. As it stands, it's only a matter of time before the storehouses run empty."
Asher said nothing. He placed one hand on the table, fingers steady. Then, slowly, he began to tap—a quiet rhythm against the wood, soft but deliberate. The sound echoed faintly in the still room, a heartbeat of thought as the general waited for his response.
"The walls," Asher said, his voice deep and unhurried, rolling out like grave waves upon a storm-dark sea.
"The what?" General Clegane leaned forward, neck stretching as though the distance made the words harder to catch, his ears straining.
"I've heard of Castle Black's impregnable walls," Asher continued. "Walls said to withstand the barrages of catapults for days without crumbling."
Clegane exhaled sharply. "Unfortunate, my lord. Those days are behind us. The backing of the United Army is no small matter—they came with a hundred and twenty catapults, and wyverns that tear through stone with every breath. My men have spent more time patching the walls than fighting." He drew a slow, heavy breath, as though Death's blade hovered just above his chest.
"Those wyverns have roasted thousands," he muttered, voice bitter. "Some of my men were crushed in their jaws. And the Duke cannot send us ballistas—every last one has been dispatched to fend off House Intis' air cavalry."
Asher gave a single nod. "I see. Then tonight, we'll deal with the catapults. Tomorrow, we prepare for the next attack. As for food—we brought enough to feed ten thousand mouths for months. That burden is no longer yours."
Relief rippled through the general's face. "How do you intend to handle the catapults, my lord?"
Unbeknownst to the men in the United Army camp, shadows flitted through the night—dozens of them, silent as whispers, their silhouettes merging with the darkness before vanishing one by one.
Until only one remained.
A soldier, crouched beside a towering catapult and slurping from a wooden bowl, paused. He lifted his head, startled by the sound. Before him stood a figure cloaked entirely in black, not a sliver of skin visible. Even his eyes were hidden beneath a dark veil.
Before the soldier could scream, the Angel assassin's dagger sank deep into his neck.
In that instant, dozens of shadows erupted from the lone figure—slipping out of him like ghosts and racing through the camp. They struck with precision, targeting the crews assigned to the siege engines. No alarm rang out. No yelp pierced the night.
Over four hundred men were slain in mere minutes by thirty Angels.
"Burn the catapults," one of the Angels ordered. At once, the others moved—fast, methodical—affixing scrolls etched with explosive runes.
A lone patrol soldier halted in his tracks, eyes narrowing as he gazed toward the catapult line. The fire stands glowed bright, illuminating the siege machines—yet not a single man was in sight.
It had been rowdy there not long ago, hadn't it?
His brow furrowed. Raising his torch, he advanced cautiously, steps crunching softly over the dirt. He glanced toward the camp's distant tents, where flames still danced gently in the night.
"These pigs were given meat while the rest of us choke down swill... and they've the gall to sleep—"
A chain of explosions tore through the darkness, ripping the air apart. Fire climbed high into the night, washing the sky in orange and red.
The shout rang through the night like a warhorn, followed by a chorus of screams as chaos erupted within the camp. Men scrambled, throwing buckets of water in frenzied heaps as burning debris rained down, igniting tents in a hungry blaze. The fire spread fast—too fast—consuming canvas and timber like dry parchment.
From the ramparts, General Clegane stared into the inferno. The burning horizon reflected in his eyes—molten, furious. Beside him stood Asher, pale-haired and composed, unmoved by the chaos that unfurled below.
"They're back!" a soldier cried, pointing urgently into the distance.
Clegane turned swiftly, eyes narrowing. At first, all he saw were faint glimmers—small, flickering lights in the dark, as if dying embers were floating across the plain. They wavered like the last breath of something burning out.
Then, in the blink of an eye, thirty figures emerged from the veil of night.
Clad in pitch-black leather and blue scarves fluttering faintly at their necks, the Angels stood in precise formation just beyond the gates, their arrival as silent and sudden as their departure.
"Open the gate," Asher commanded, his voice low but unyielding. "The Angels have completed their task."
At once, the gatekeepers obeyed. The heavy doors groaned open, revealing the grim warriors. As they stepped through the threshold, not a single word was spoken. Soldiers lining the walls and courtyard watched them with wide eyes—some in awe, others in unease—the same expression one might wear when watching a ghost, a being that shouldn't exist in the mortal world.