Empire of no Saints

Chapter 6: The Ashen Gates

The smoke hit first.

It rolled over the eastern wall like a wave of choking grey, curling through the arrow slits and flooding the narrow stone corridors. It reeked of pitch and death—wood soaked and set alight, bodies burning before the battle had even truly begun. The screams that followed were not the disciplined cries of soldiers, but the panicked howls of men waking to fire on their bedsheets and steel at their throats.

Thorne Malrik stood atop the inner parapet, cloak whipping in the wind, his eyes fixed on the chaos below. Ironreach's eastern gate was ablaze. The wooden supports were splintering, reinforced iron glowing orange from the heat.

They had come fast.

Too fast.

"Put out that fire!" he barked to the nearest captain, his voice a lash cracking through the din.

Behind him, the inner keep had erupted in motion—soldiers pouring into the yard, scrambling for their gear, shouting orders above the wail of horns. Somewhere behind it all, the war drums had begun to beat. Slow. Measured. Merciless. Vael's rhythm.

Thorne gritted his teeth. This was no siege. It was an execution.

Outside the walls, Vael Corren watched the flames rise with a predator's calm. His helm was under one arm, the other resting lightly on the pommel of his longsword. His horse paced behind him, snorting at the scent of smoke and blood.

Beside him, Riven Sol stood with arms crossed, his face streaked with soot and something darker. His armor was dented, his blade notched. The first wave had cost them men, but the breach was open now.

"Reports say they're holding the second tier," Riven said, not looking up. "Archers on the inner wall, spearmen in the courtyard. They're better trained than I thought."

Vael didn't respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the flickering banners above the tower—Thorne's silver wyvern, fraying at the edges but still flying. He let silence stretch, like a blade being drawn.

"Let them hold," he said at last. "I want them to feel safe before I take it from them."

From the rear ranks, Maera Vex emerged, her black robes unmarked by the grime of war. She moved as if untouched by gravity, or perhaps by consequence. Her eyes gleamed with something cold and distant, something that had seen too much—or not enough.

"You should be careful, Vael," she said, her voice silken. "Thorne fights like a man with nothing to lose."

Vael's gaze didn't shift. "Then he'll fall like one."

She watched him a moment longer, then looked up at the burning wall. Her smile was unreadable. "You always did prefer your victories in ash."

Inside Ironreach, Thorne moved like a man possessed.

He kicked open the door to the inner war chamber, where the last of his commanders waited—most of them bloodied, all of them afraid.

"Seal the lower gate," he said. "Pull the eastern units back to the courtyard. If they want to bleed us, make them earn every drop."

"Sir," one of the younger captains stammered, "if we fall back now—"

"If we fall back now," Thorne snapped, "we live long enough to kill them in the courtyard."

He turned, facing the table, where the map of Ironreach was already spattered with soot and ash. His hand traced the inner corridors, the choke points, the blind corners. He had built this city. He knew where it would break.

He also knew where it could bleed.

"Start pulling civilians into the tunnels beneath the keep. Arm the reserves. And gods help any man who deserts his post."

There was a murmur of reluctant assent, boots scraping against stone as the captains rushed out.

Thorne lingered a moment longer, eyes on the map.

He whispered, to no one but himself: "You should've killed me when you had the chance, Vael."

The courtyard was a slaughterhouse by sunrise.

Flames cast jagged shadows across the walls, illuminating the piles of bodies—soldiers tangled with soldiers, armor torn and twisted. Blood ran between the cobblestones like rainwater.

Vael walked through it all like a man surveying a garden. Calm. Precise.

He stepped over a broken halberd, nudging aside a corpse with the toe of his boot. His eyes scanned the upper levels—no sign of Thorne. But the fighting was far from over.

"He's not here," Riven growled beside him, wiping his blade. "He's deeper in."

Vael nodded. "Let him retreat. Let him gather every piece of hope he has left."

He turned slowly, looking back toward the gates now half-consumed by fire. "We'll crush it all before dusk."

Maera appeared on the parapet above, wind lifting her cloak like wings. She raised her hand, and a sound rang out—low and resonant. Not metal. Not human.

The ground beneath Ironreach began to hum.

Vael's smile returned, sharper this time.

The real assault had not yet begun.