The mist battered the eastern wall like a living thing.
It clawed at the stones, wrapping them in choking, swirling tendrils of chill.
The dead surged against the ramparts in endless, mindless waves—screaming, howling, battering their rotted bodies against the reinforced gates and stone battlements.
The soldiers of Callestan stood atop the walls in grim, desperate lines.
Arrows sang through the air, cutting down the first ranks.
Boiling oil hissed down the outer slopes, sending groups of undead into thrashing, burning heaps.
But for every creature that fell—
three more rose to take its place.
The night was alive with chaos.
Clanging steel.
Screams.
The wet sound of flesh meeting blade.
The stench of blood, burnt bone, and rot was so thick it seemed to cling to the inside of every soldier's mouth, gagging them with every breath.
Above it all, the bells of Callestan rang.
Not in panic.
But in rhythm.
A steady, pulsing heartbeat.
Hold the line.
Hold the line.
Hold the line.
Terron crashed through the secondary gatehouse just as another wave of dead slammed into the base of the eastern wall.
His armor was battered, streaked with black blood and clots of mist-burnt rot.
A gash ran down the side of his helmet, leaking crimson.
But he was alive.
Breathing.
Moving.
The nearest captain—a woman named Darin, her shield arm already slick with blood—saw him first.
She blinked in surprise.
Then barked to her squad:
"Make a hole! Reinforcements!"
Terron didn't stop to explain.
He charged straight to the breach line, swinging his hammer in wide, brutal arcs.
The weapon crushed skulls, shattered ribcages, pulverized undead flesh with every strike.
The soldiers rallied around him, heartened by his arrival.
One man—barely more than a boy—shouted above the din:
"That's one of the Dawn Slayer's!"
And just like that—
the legend began to spread.
Word passed along the lines.
From wall to wall.
From wounded stretcher-bearer to grim-faced archer.
From exhausted runner to field medic.
The Dawn Slayer was still out there.
Still fighting.
Still pushing forward alone against the enemy's black heart.
And if he could do that—
Then they could damn well hold the line.
At the field hospital:
The courtyard had been turned into a triage center.
Canvas tents snapped in the wind, lanterns guttering as the wounded poured in faster than the healers could handle.
Maia stood at the center of it all.
Her armor was splattered with blood—not her own.
Her hands moved in quick, practiced gestures.
Mending flesh.
Sealing arteries.
Pouring calming magic into the broken bodies brought before her.
Every cot was filled.
New casualties were laid on the bare ground.
Screams filled the air, but Maia barely flinched.
She moved from patient to patient, her calming charms a steady balm against the rising tide of horror.
A young runner stumbled into the hospital, face pale, bleeding from a gash along his scalp.
He gasped for breath, pushing through the crush of bodies.
"The wall's holding," he managed to choke out.
"They're saying… they're saying the Dawn Slayer is still—"
He collapsed into unconsciousness before he could finish.
Maia caught him, lowering him carefully to the floor.
Her hands trembled for a moment—
Just a moment.
Then she pressed them to his wound, light blooming under her fingers.
Around her, the other healers took up the whisper.
The Dawn Slayer.
The Dawn Slayer is still fighting.
Hope moved through the hospital like a second, invisible current.
Thin.
Fragile.
But real.
Back at the walls:
Terron fought like a man possessed.
Blood poured from a dozen minor wounds.
His hammer moved slower now—but it still moved.
Still crushed.
Still killed.
The dead were smarter tonight.
They weren't just climbing and clawing.
They were forming shapes, bodies stacking into living ladders to reach the battlements.
Some carried ancient, rusted weapons, swinging them with terrifying strength.
Wraiths drifted between the throngs, sowing chaos wherever their cold, incorporeal fingers brushed living flesh.
Captain Darin fell back beside Terron, breathless.
"Where's the Guide?" she shouted over the clamor.
Terron smashed a ghoul aside with a grunt.
"Out there," he roared back.
Pointing his bloodied hammer into the mist beyond the walls.
"Holding the bastards together by the throat."
She stared into the mist for a heartbeat.
Then turned back to her soldiers.
"Hold the damn wall!" she screamed.
"If he's out there fighting alone, you'll sure as hell fight with him in your hearts!"
And they did.
The soldiers tightened their ranks.
Blades rose and fell with renewed fury.
Bows sang in deadly, rhythmic volleys.
The chant began low at first, half-prayer, half-battle cry:
"Dawn Slayer.
Dawn Slayer.
Dawn Slayer."
It spread like wildfire across the battlements.
A defiance.
A declaration.
Below them, the dead howled louder.
Pushed harder.
Fought with renewed desperation.
As if they, too, could sense that the city they sought to devour had found its spine.
Had remembered its name.
In the command hall:
General Varrik stood over the battle maps, one hand braced against the heavy oak table.
Sweat dripped from his brow despite the cold.
He listened to the runners as they reported from every quarter.
He listened to the sounds carried on the wind.
The battle cries.
The drums.
The name whispered over and over.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then turned to his adjutants.
"Send word to every wall captain," he said, voice rough but unyielding.
"If the Dawn Slayer doesn't fall—
then neither do we."
Orders were barked.
Flags raised.
Torches lit in prearranged signals.
The defenders tightened.
The city hardened.
And the battle raged on.
As midnight neared the first lines of undead faltered.
Not because they were winning.
But because they were holding.
The walls cracked but did not break.
The gates groaned but stood firm.
The hospital strained but still gave life.
And through it all—
the whispers endured.
Not born of command.
Not born of fear.
Born of the impossible sight of a single man standing against the tide.
A man whose blades carved light through the mist.
A man who held back the dark.
The Dawn Slayer.
Their hope.
Their shield.
Their blade against the endless night.