The morning sun was thin and pale when Koda and Maia left the Librarium.
The streets of Callestan were already stirring—merchants calling to one another from open stalls, smiths hammering at the forges, patrols moving in tight, focused formations.
Life, stubborn and defiant, pulsed through the city's veins.
But beneath it all, an undercurrent of fear thrummed.
Koda could feel it.
In the quick, darting glances between guards.
In the way the civilians clutched their cloaks tighter around their shoulders.
The city knew.
The storm was coming.
And soon.
They moved quickly, Maia at his side, her mid-level Order token swinging openly from a chain around her neck.
It caught the sunlight like a spark, the engraved handprint visible even at a distance.
Guards snapped to attention as they passed.
Civilians parted without question.
The Order's authority ran deep here—and Maia's token, marked in smoky gray, gave them all the weight they needed.
They made their way toward the southeastern quarter first.
Toward the shelters.
Toward the places where the noncombatants would make their stand—or their last prayers—when
the city walls shook.
The main shelter was a reworked merchant's hall, reinforced with stone and hastily built bracing.
Already, healers moved through it in quiet efficiency, setting up cots, stacking supplies, organizing what precious little they had.
A thin man with ink-stained sleeves—clearly a records officer—approached at their arrival, bowing stiffly.
"Orders?" he asked.
Maia smiled warmly, taking the lead.
"We're here to inspect," she said, flashing her token just enough to be seen clearly.
The man paled slightly but nodded rapidly.
"Of course. This way."
They moved through the structure, Koda and Maia noting every detail.
Entry points marked with sigils to reinforce them against breaches.
Healers assigned by triage level.
Water supplies stacked, guarded by junior soldiers.
A communication system of colored flags and runners prepared to relay urgent needs to the wall fronts.
It was good.
Better than Koda had feared.
But still—
He saw the cracks.
Too few healers.
Too many wounded expected.
Too thin a margin for error.
When the inspection was done, Maia pulled aside one of the field captains—a short woman with a severe haircut and a voice like snapping leather.
"We'll need to allocate more supplies here," Maia said firmly.
"If this quarter falls, we lose too many."
The captain grimaced but nodded.
"I'll request transfers."
Koda laid a hand briefly on the captain's shoulder.
"Not request," he said quietly.
"Order."
The captain swallowed hard.
Then saluted and strode off, barking orders.
Back on the street, Maia glanced at him sidelong.
"You're settling into this role," she said.
Koda gave a small, humorless smile.
"I don't want to be in command."
He watched a group of children dash across the square, their laughter too brittle, too forced.
"But someone has to."
Maia nodded, her expression softening.
"Then I'm glad it's you."
Their next stop was the military command hall—a squat, brutal structure of black stone near the second ring's inner wall.
Guards stood posted at the entrance, eyeing everyone with thinly veiled suspicion.
When Maia flashed her token, they hesitated—
But stepped aside.
Inside, the hall buzzed with activity.
Messengers darted from table to table.
Maps littered every surface, pinned with colored markers and hastily scrawled notes.
The smell of sweat and oil hung thick in the air.
At the central table stood the generals.
Five of them—old warhorses and young lions alike—arguing in hushed, fierce tones over the
placement of reserves and the timing of artillery strikes.
They barely glanced up as Koda and Maia approached.
One of the senior officers—a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a face crisscrossed with old scars—looked over briefly.
"We're a little busy," he said gruffly.
Koda said nothing.
Maia lifted her token again.
The generals paused, exchanged a few quick glances.
Reluctantly, they waved Koda and Maia forward.
They stood over the maps, tracing the line of the city walls.
Markers showed concentrations of defenses—heavy here, lighter there.
"Field hospitals here and here," one of the generals muttered, tapping the districts north and west.
"The east wall's thin. We're rotating mages there, but if they breach, it's—"
He shook his head grimly.
"Bad."
Koda listened.
Patient.
Silent.
Letting them talk.
Letting them believe—for a little while longer—that they still held the shape of the coming battle in their hands.
When the discussion turned back to strategies, Koda spoke.
"What about the weakest points?" he asked.
The generals stiffened.
"Patrols are in place," one said cautiously.
"Reinforcements are nearby."
Not an answer.
A deflection.
Koda watched them for a moment.
Then, without a word, he reached into his cloak and drew out his own token.
The black coin gleamed in the light—deep, almost oily, etched with the same handprint but darker than night.
A hush fell over the table.
Even the messengers paused, sensing the shift.
The generals stared at the token.
Then at Koda.
Recognition slowly dawned in their eyes.
Whispers rippled through the hall.
Koda placed the coin gently on the map.
"I held the line at Oria," he said quietly.
"Flight support during the siege.
Held a breach alone for nearly 12 hours while the civilians evacuated."
His voice was calm.
Matter-of-fact.
No boasting.
No threat.
Only the simple, brutal weight of truth.
"I'm not here to take your command."
He looked each general in the eye.
"But I will stand where it's needed most."
He tapped the map—at the thinnest points along the eastern and southern walls.
"Here.
Here.
And here."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the grizzled senior general nodded once, short and sharp.
Respect.
"Understood," he said.
"You'll have full movement permissions across the battlements."
Another general—a younger woman with dark, calculating eyes—leaned forward.
"You're volunteering to plug the holes yourself?"
Koda smiled faintly.
"That's what I do."
The room relaxed slightly.
The generals began shifting markers, adjusting assignments.
Already factoring Koda's mobility and strength into the defense.
As the final plans were made, Maia stayed close.
Silent.
Steady.
A presence he didn't need to look at to feel.
When the meeting ended and they stepped out into the cold morning air again, Maia slid her hand into his.
Koda squeezed it gently.
Together, they stood at the edge of the square, watching the city bustle.
Children playing in alleys.
Merchants haggling over bread.
Guards tightening patrols.
A world that didn't know how close it was to the brink.
"You think they'll hold?" Maia asked quietly.
Koda watched the people.
The life.
The hope.
He nodded once.
"They'll hold."
His other hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade.
"And if they falter—"
A grim smile touched his lips.
"I'll be there."