Chapter 20: The Siege of Hollowspire

The storm hit just before dawn.

Snow flurried across the high passes of the Hollowspire Mountains, a wall of white smothering the peaks in bone-deep silence. Yet within that silence, beneath centuries-old stone, a thousand soldiers waited in breathless anticipation.

Caelan stood at the edge of the ridge, wind howling past his cloak.

Below, nestled between jagged cliffs, the fortress city of Hollowspire rose from the earth like a wound in the mountains — dark towers of obsidian stone, lit by balefire lanterns, and circled with three concentric walls. It was the crown jewel of the northern border, a place once deemed impenetrable.

It had also belonged to his mother's family.

Until Queen Elaria gifted it to House Marell — the very same house that helped orchestrate Seraphine's downfall.

Now it would fall.

Caelan turned to Vale and Lys, who stood behind him amid the frost-covered firs. Their breath came in puffs. Their eyes glinted with resolve.

"All units are in position," Vale reported. "The west gates are lightly manned. They won't expect a strike in this storm."

Caelan nodded, his voice cold.

"Let the thunder begin."

The first breach was silent.

A gloved hand across a guard's throat. A muffled thud as his body hit the ice. Then another. Then another. Shadows moved beneath the outer ramparts — figures in black armor, carrying twin crescent blades marked with the sigil of the Thorned Vow.

Caelan's elite.

At his signal, fire arrows lit the western watchtower ablaze.

Chaos erupted.

Alarms rang through the citadel. Horns blared. Marell soldiers scrambled to man the walls — too slow, too confused. The gates had already been sabotaged. The hinges cracked. The bar burned.

And then the gates opened.

Caelan led the charge.

His steed, midnight-gray and war-trained, reared at the threshold. Sword in hand, cloak billowing behind him, Caelan surged into the city like the shadow of vengeance itself.

"Strike only those who raise arms!" he shouted. "No innocents!"

The battle within the outer city was swift and brutal.

Marell's soldiers, accustomed to court patrols and ceremonial drills, found themselves overwhelmed by guerrilla formations, smoke bombs, and unconventional weaponry.

Vale's units took the barracks by the first hour.

Lys's archers sealed the inner gates with flame.

And Caelan?

He carved his way straight through the eastern courtyard, leaving blood and broken oaths in his wake.

By midday, the Thorned Vow held the first two walls.

The final defense lay at the keep: a towering citadel of obsidian reinforced with steel wards and enchanted with defensive glyphs.

Behind those walls waited Lord Marell.

And beside him — to Caelan's bitter amusement — a royal envoy bearing the Queen's personal banner.

"She sent someone?" Caelan asked, standing over a captured soldier.

The man spat blood. "She knew… you'd try something… coward prince…"

Caelan's blade answered.

Then he turned to Vale. "Ready the ballistae. We breach by nightfall."

But the keep was not defenseless.

As night fell, a flare shot from the tower's peak — blue light against the snowy black. A moment later, explosions ripped through the city behind them.

Trap glyphs.

Hidden munitions.

Dozens of Caelan's soldiers were caught in the blast, their bodies torn apart, screams drowned by crumbling stone.

And from the east gate, reinforcements arrived — two hundred loyalist knights in the Queen's gold-and-silver armor.

"They had backup waiting," Vale shouted as the tide turned. "We're being pinched!"

Lys appeared at Caelan's side, blood on her cheek.

"We can't hold them like this. They're using the old catacombs beneath the keep. Secret tunnels."

Caelan's jaw tightened.

"Then we seal the tunnels."

The plan was suicidal.

That's what they told him.

But he didn't care.

He took twenty volunteers — no more. Crawled through the frozen sewers beneath Hollowspire's lower city. Found the tunnel mouths, laced with sigils and sabotage runes.

And he lit them aflame.

The resulting explosion collapsed half the eastern corridor of the keep.

It also bought them time.

And in that window — they struck.

Vale led the breach team.

Caelan stormed the gates.

And Lys, with her ash-cloaked archers, rained death from the rooftops.

They reached the throne room of Hollowspire just before dawn.

Lord Marell stood waiting, blade in hand. He was older now, his hair gray at the temples, but his eyes still held the same venom Caelan remembered from his childhood — the same sneer he wore when speaking of "illegitimate brats."

"You should have died with your mother," Marell snarled.

Caelan didn't answer.

He simply raised his sword.

Their duel was swift.

Marell fought like a noble — elegant, methodical, wasteful.

Caelan fought like a shadow.

He struck from angles Marell couldn't read. Used the broken stone columns to his advantage. Fought as if the man before him represented every injustice of his youth.

He disarmed him within minutes.

And when Marell fell to his knees, gasping, Caelan stood over him with steady eyes.

"She screamed your name," Caelan said. "The night she died. Not in love. In fury."

Marell's mouth opened to curse him.

Caelan drove his blade through his throat.

They hung Marell's banner from the tower — but in ashes.

And in its place, Caelan raised the new standard: a black banner bearing a silver rose coiled around a dagger.

The mark of the Thorned Vow.

Later, as his soldiers secured the remaining barracks and healed their wounded, Caelan stood alone in the ruined throne room.

Snow fell through a cracked stained-glass window, dotting the bloodied floor like pale petals.

Vale entered quietly, handing him a scroll.

"What is it?" Caelan asked.

Vale hesitated. "A letter. From the Queen."

Caelan unrolled it.

Her handwriting was elegant as ever.

To the boy who calls himself prince—

You burn castles and call it justice. You slaughter nobles and name it righteousness. You think yourself untouchable, because the people chant your name in alleys and noble brats flock to your cause.

But I am the crown. I am the law. I am the kingdom.

And the next time you raise that wretched banner, I will not send letters.

I will send dragons.

It was signed with her seal: an obsidian phoenix ringed in gold.

Caelan said nothing.

He simply folded the letter once. Then burned it in the brazier.

"We ride south next," he said to Vale.

Vale frowned. "South?"

"To the Marshlands. House Yren has been quiet too long. If they plan to betray me, I'd rather it be in the open."

He turned.

"And tell Lys to prepare a message for the Council of Lords. We summon them. One month from now. In the neutral halls of Ravencall."

"You think they'll come?"

"They'll come," Caelan said grimly. "Because by then, they'll understand this isn't rebellion anymore."

He looked toward the horizon — toward the heart of the empire.

"This is war."