Chapter Twenty-Three: The Siege of Grayreach
Grayreach had once been a city of gardens.
Torian had heard stories from survivors: lush hanging vines along the walls, spiraling towers ofstone and silver, waters drawn from crystal springs, music rising over the rooftops. But now, as he
stood on the ridge overlooking its broken form, all he saw was fire.
Black fire.
It curled across rooftops like smoke given shape. Massive barricades of emberstone lined the
streets. The towers now bore false spirals etched in molten iron. Watchers—hulking guards clad in
heavy ash-plate—marched along the walls in perfect silence.
Skarn crouched beside him, stone-crushing claws sunk into the earth. His wings were half-spread,
low and tense. Even he was wary of the place.
Behind them, the Iron Pact waited—nearly fifty warriors in battered armor, their flame marks dimmed
from years of hiding, but their spirits reignited by Torian's rise. Among them stood former refugees,
outcasts, ember-monks, and oathbound fighters.
Grayreach was not just a target.
It was a message.
Take the city. Prove the flame is not lost.
Torian stood, hand resting on the hilt of his father's blade. The spiral on his arm glowed
with a slow pulse, not warning—timing.
He turned to the Pact.
"We strike when the western sun touches the wall," he said. "They'll be blinded for
moments. That's when the outer gate falls."
Vaelor stepped forward, armored and grim. "And you?"
Torian looked to the east, where a dry riverbed cut beneath the wall—once an
aqueduct.
"I'm going through the bones."
⸻When the hour came, the Pact moved like a silent wave through the brush.
Skarn was already gone—circling above the city, wings riding the heat, looking for the sentinels
posted atop the main towers. He didn't need orders. He knew what to break.
Torian dropped into the aqueduct.
The walls were slick with moss and soot. Bits of broken bone and rusted tools littered the tunnel. It
wasn't used for water anymore.
It was a mass grave.
Torian pressed forward, flame quiet around him. He no longer needed to force it. It followed him like
breath.
The moment he emerged into the undercity, the ground shook.
A horn blared on the surface.
Then—Skarn's roar.
The battle had begun.
⸻
Grayreach's palace stood like a spike in the city's heart, a monolith of blackened stone and ember-
fused steel. Torian moved through the lower streets with caution, flame low at his fingertips.
The enemy had corrupted the city's defenses—not just walls and gates, but the air itself. Choking
smoke curled unnaturally, drifting against wind patterns, seeking warmth. It moved like it
remembered fire.
Torian ignited his palm.
The spiral flared—and the smoke recoiled, hissing as it retreated into the cracks.
"They can smell the real flame," he murmured.As he turned a corner, a shriek ripped through the stone.
Three twisted soldiers charged from the alley, their armor fused into their flesh. Their faces bore
melted false spirals, and their swords burned not orange—but purple-black.
Torian didn't run.
He exhaled.
Flame poured from his hand in a tight spiral, snaring the first attacker's legs and wrenching him to
the ground.
The second lunged—Torian ducked low, letting the blade skim over his shoulder, then spun with his
sword, flame arcing from the blade's edge. The strike didn't just cut—it unwound the false spiral in
the soldier's chest.
He collapsed in silence, flame flickering out like a dying lie.
The third froze.
Torian met his eyes.
"Run."
He did.
⸻
The inner sanctum doors exploded open as Skarn smashed through the balcony above, tearing a
braced timber beam in half with his claws. Debris rained down. A corrupted sentinel lunged toward
Torian—and was caught mid-air by Skarn's paw and slammed into a wall like wet clay.
"Perfect timing," Torian muttered.
Skarn grunted.
From deeper inside, footsteps echoed.A tall figure emerged—bare-chested, his body wrapped in chains glowing with ember-runes. His
eyes were hollow, but the spiral carved into his chest was unmistakable:
False. Deep. Branded.
The man's voice was not his own.
"Bearer," it hissed. "Pretender."
Torian stepped forward. "What was your name?"
The man blinked. For a moment, something returned. Then the flame turned black
again.
"It was taken. As yours will be."
He raised a blade forged from twisted ember-glass, warped and serrated.
Torian readied his stance.
"You don't know me."
"I know what you'll become."
Their blades met with a shockwave of heat and pressure. Sparks flew, flame snapped in
the air, and the two collided again and again across the hall. The corrupted bearer
moved like a hurricane—faster than any soldier, every strike fueled by flame not bound
to purpose, but fury.
Torian countered with grace.
He parried low, stepped aside, redirected the blade's arc, and let his flame flow like
memory, not rage.
At the climax of the fight, the corrupted man raised his sword overhead.
Torian saw the spiral pulse—timed with his heart.And he struck.
Not the chest.
The brand.
His blade sank deep, and golden flame surged outward, burning the false spiral clean
off the man's body. The chains shattered.
The enemy collapsed, breathing raggedly.
"Name…" he whispered.
Torian knelt beside him. "You don't have to remember it. You're free now."
⸻
By dusk, the walls of Grayreach had quieted.
Skarn perched atop the palace tower, scanning the city as Pact members roamed the streets,
gathering the wounded, freeing the imprisoned, dismantling the barricades.
In the courtyard below, children peeked around the rubble to watch Torian.
Some stared in awe.
Some smiled.
One ran up to him, holding a flower made of woven reeds.
"It's for you," she said.
He knelt.
"I don't deserve this yet."
"You saved my sister."He accepted it.
Skarn rumbled approvingly.
As night fell, the fires burned gold again.
Torian sat beside the courtyard well, blade across his knees, spiral dim but steady.
He looked at the stars.
"One city down," he whispered.
Skarn rested nearby, eyes half-closed.
"How many more?" he asked the night.
No answer came.
But inside his chest, the flame flickered.
And he knew.