The days following the Witch’s attack on Blackspire were fraught with tension. Scouts reported increased troop movements to the north, villages spoke of soldiers burning fields and executing suspected rebels, and the once-celebratory air within the fortress had grown grim. Mordain’s response was coming, and it would be merciless.

  Alric stood in Blackspire’s main courtyard, watching as the rebels prepared for war. Fighters trained with worn weapons, smiths hammered armor back into usable shape, and carts filled with supplies were rolled toward the fortress walls. The people had hope—but it was fragile, hanging by a thread.

  Kaelion appeared at his side, his golden eyes surveying the scene. “They’re scared,” the Echo said. “And rightly so. Mordain won’t let you hold this place without a fight.”

  “They have every reason to be scared,” Alric replied, his voice quiet. “But fear isn’t what drives them. It’s anger. Hunger. A need for something better.”

  Kaelion tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Spoken like a leader. You’re growing into this role faster than I thought you would.”

  Alric didn’t respond. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where dark clouds gathered over the mountains.

  Far to the north, in the foothills of the Amber Veil, Mordain’s army began its march. Thousands of soldiers clad in blackened armor moved in perfect unison, their banners snapping in the cold wind. At their head rode General Rhykan, a towering figure whose presence alone seemed to darken the sky. His black cloak billowed behind him, and his steely eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

  Beside him rode the Witch of Ebonreach, her crimson robes stark against the gloom of the army. Her ink-dark eyes gleamed with malice, and her voice was soft as silk as she addressed the general.

  “The prince won’t surrender Blackspire,” she said. “His rebellion is driven by desperation. That makes him dangerous.”

  Rhykan grunted. “Desperation makes men reckless. I’ll crush him before he even knows we’re here.”

  The Witch’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Do not underestimate him, General. He wields the Echoes, and their power is… unpredictable.”

  Rhykan’s expression hardened. “I don’t fear magic. Steel wins wars—not tricks and shadows.”

  The Witch said nothing, but her smile deepened.

  In the war room of Blackspire, Alric and the rebel leaders gathered around a new map of the Amber Veil. Iridia stood at the head of the table, her voice calm but urgent as she laid out the situation.

  “Our scouts estimate Mordain’s army will reach us within five days,” she said. “At least three thousand soldiers, and that’s just the vanguard. They’re bringing siege equipment, warhorses, and enough supplies to last a prolonged assault.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over the group.

  Jorik broke the silence, his gruff voice echoing in the chamber. “Three thousand? We’ve got barely three hundred fighters, half of them farmers with makeshift weapons. How are we supposed to hold this place?”

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  Alric leaned over the table, his fingers tracing the map. “We don’t fight them head-on,” he said. “Blackspire was built to withstand sieges. Its walls are high, the cliffs protect our flanks, and the narrow approaches force the enemy into chokepoints. If we use the terrain to our advantage, we can hold them off long enough to turn the tide.”

  “And what happens when their siege weapons tear through our walls?” Renna asked.

  Alric met her gaze, his voice steady. “That’s where the second part of the plan comes in. We’re not just defending Blackspire—we’re using it as bait.”

  Jorik frowned. “Bait for what?”

  “For the people of the Veil,” Alric said. “Word has already spread that we’ve taken Blackspire. If we can hold it long enough, more villages will rise up. Every day we hold the fortress is a day Mordain’s forces are tied down—and a day the rebellion grows stronger.”

  The room erupted into murmurs as the leaders exchanged uneasy glances.

  “It’s a gamble,” Iridia said, her sharp blue eyes fixed on Alric. “If the people don’t rise, we’ll be cut off and overwhelmed.”

  “I know,” Alric said. “But we don’t have a choice. If we run, the rebellion dies. If we hold Blackspire, we give the kingdom something to rally behind. Something to believe in.”

  Iridia studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “All right, prince. We’ll do it your way.”

  That night, as the rebels prepared for the coming battle, Alric found himself alone in the highest tower of Blackspire. The wind howled through the cracks in the stone, carrying with it the distant cries of wolves from the northern forests.

  The obsidian dagger sat on the table before him, its surface gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Alric stared at it, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and fears.

  “You’re thinking too much,” Kaelion said, his spectral form appearing beside him.

  “I can’t help it,” Alric replied. “This is bigger than anything we’ve done before. If I fail…”

  “You won’t,” Kaelion said, his tone firm. “You’re stronger than you think. But you need to stop doubting yourself. The Echoes feed on weakness, and if you let them, they’ll pull you under.”

  Alric’s jaw tightened. “What if they already are? Every time I use their power, it feels… different. Stronger. Like they’re getting closer.”

  Kaelion’s golden eyes darkened. “They are. But you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me—and the others. As much as I hate to admit it, even Maltheron is bound to you. Use us wisely, and you’ll endure.”

  “And if I don’t?” Alric asked quietly.

  Kaelion’s gaze softened. “Then the bloodline will consume you. Just like it consumed so many before you.”

  The words hung heavy in the air, a weight Alric could feel in his very bones.

  As dawn broke over Blackspire, a rider appeared on the horizon, galloping toward the fortress at full speed. The rebels manning the gates raised their bows, but Alric ordered them to hold fire.

  The rider was a woman, her cloak torn and dust-covered, her horse frothing at the mouth from exhaustion. She reined in sharply as she approached the gates, her voice hoarse but urgent.

  “I bring word from the southern villages!” she called. “Let me speak to Prince Alric!”

  Moments later, Alric stood before her in the courtyard, his gaze sharp. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lyssa,” the woman said, her breath ragged. “I’m a scout for the Veil’s southern villages. Mordain’s forces are moving faster than we thought—they’ve already started burning villages near the border.”

  Alric’s fists clenched. “How many villages?”

  “Three,” Lyssa said. “But there’s more. Some of the villages are fighting back. They’re disorganized, but they’re resisting. If you can reach them, they’ll join you.”

  Iridia stepped forward. “If we leave now, we risk thinning our defenses here. Mordain’s vanguard is days away.”

  Alric’s mind raced. The villages were the rebellion’s lifeline, but leaving Blackspire could spell disaster.

  “We can’t hold this fortress without the people,” he said finally. “We’ll send a small group to rally them. I’ll lead it.”

  Iridia frowned. “You’re the face of this rebellion, Alric. If you leave…”

  “Then I’ll make sure I come back,” Alric said, his voice firm.

  As Alric prepared to ride south, the tension in Blackspire grew thicker. The rebellion was at a crossroads, its future balanced on the edge of a blade.

  Mordain’s forces were closing in. The villages were rising. And in the shadows, the Echoes whispered, their presence growing stronger with every passing day.

  The storm was coming. And Alric knew that when it arrived, everything would change.