The messenger collapsed at Caelthon’s feet, coughing up dust. He was covered in mud and dried blood.

  "Water!" Caelthon roared, dropping to one knee. He grabbed a waterskin from his belt and held it to the man's cracked lips himself. "Drink. Slowly."

  The runner gulped, choking, then gasped out his message. "Riverwood... Heretics. Undead. They breached the perimeter."

  Caelthon wiped the grit from the man's face. "When?"

  "Three days ago."

  The command tent went silent. Three days. Riverwood was a farming hamlet. No fortifications. No garrison. Just a supply depot.

  "Macus is there," Caelthon said. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a falling mountain. "He was cataloging the grain harvest."

  "Then he's dead, sir," a lieutenant said grimly, looking at the map. "Three days siege? It takes three days just to ride there. Six days total? No village holds for six days against a Horde. It’s a corpse run."

  "He is not dead," Caelthon stated, standing up and donning his helmet. "Mount up. We ride now."

  They rode. They killed horses with the pace. For three days, the squad muttered. They prepared themselves for the smell of rot. They prepared to find their quartermaster’s head on a pike.

  They arrived at the ridge overlooking Riverwood at dawn on the sixth day. Caelthon drew his sword, ready to charge into a massacre.

  He stopped. The village was not burning. It was... ugly. But it was standing.

  The breaches in the low stone fences were plugged, not with masonry, but with a chaotic, brilliant mess of antique armoires, overturned carts, and sacks of grain that had been soaked in water and frozen solid by the night air to create ice-concrete.

  The heretics were there—a swarm of them surrounding the perimeter. But they looked exhausted. Starving. Every time they charged a gap, they slipped on patches of alchemical grease or were met with a precise, synchronized volley of farming tools and stones.

  "They're holding," the lieutenant whispered, stunned. "How in the hells..."

  "Because he's there," Caelthon grinned, his faith vindicated. "CHARGE!"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The relief force hit the weary heretics like a hammer. Caelthon was a golden blur, smashing the siege line from the rear. The heretics, already broken by six days of frustration, routed instantly.

  Caelthon rode through the gates, his armor shining, his full-faced helmet turning to scan the survivors. He found Macus in the town square. Macus didn't look like a hero. He looked like a quartermaster who had been dragged through a sewer.

  Caelthon dismounted, pulling the heavy helm from his head and tucking it under his arm, his hair matted with sweat.

  "You're late," Macus croaked.

  "We rode day and night!" Caelthon laughed, crushing Macus in a hug. "I knew you were alive! I told them! I told them you'd hold!"

  Macus winced, pulling away. "Careful. I have three cracked ribs from moving the barricades."

  The villagers poured out of the safe-zones. They saw the golden knight. They saw the scattered heretic army.

  "The Champion!" a woman cried, falling to her knees. "He came! He saved us!"

  "Hail Caelthon!" the mayor shouted. "The Savior of Riverwood!"

  Caelthon raised a hand, stopping the cheers. He turned and pointed at Macus.

  "I didn't save you!" Caelthon shouted, his voice earnest. "I just cleaned up the mess! He saved you! Macus held the line for six days! Cheer for him!"

  The crowd looked at Macus. They didn't cheer.

  "Him?" a baker spat, stepping forward. "He confiscated my flour! He said it was for 'dust bombs'! My winter stock is gone!"

  "He broke my grandmother's chair to plug a hole in the fence!" a woman yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Macus.

  "He rationed the water to a cup a day!" the mayor complained, despite looking healthy and hydrated. "We were starving! We were thirsty! He treated us like prisoners in our own town!"

  Caelthon looked shocked. "He kept you alive! You would have been slaughtered without those barricades!"

  "We would have fought!" the baker argued, delusional with relief. "We didn't need to be starved!"

  They turned back to Caelthon, their eyes shining with adoration. "But you... you drove them off! You brought the victory!"

  "Hail Caelthon!"

  Macus didn't say a word. He just sat back down on his crate. He picked up his quill. He crossed "Siege" off his to-do list.

  They don't hate me because I failed, Macus thought tiredly. They hate me because I made them do the math of survival.

  Empathy opens the door to death. He calculates the water ration not out of cruelty, but because "The Lock" is holding.

  "Inventory check," he muttered to himself. "Grain stocks... depleted. Furniture... destroyed. Reputation... non-existent."

  He looked at Caelthon, who was looking back at him with a helpless, apologetic expression.

  "It's okay," Macus mouthed to his friend. "Take the win."

  “But I won’t stand, and gave everything up so the Champion could have his glory” Macus whispered.

  He closed the ledger. The dents belonged to him. But the glory belonged to the Sun.