Dawn arrived with smoke. The Khan’s army already stood beneath the walls. It was expected.
Randel stood on the wall, gazing into the horizon. The steppe was burning — not with fire, but with an army. Hundreds, thousands of spears stretched as far as the eye could see. The Khan had not waited. He had brought a massive force.
“My lord,” Erhard climbed onto the wall, breathing heavily. “The men are ready. Fifty knights await your command.”
“Good,” Randel didn’t turn around. “And them?”
“The beastfolk and Kaelan’s warriors are forming up at the gates. Kaelan will lead them himself. The Reaper is beside him.”
Randel nodded.
The Reaper was his shadow. His sword. The sharp point that the leader of the uprising aimed straight at the enemy’s heart.
“Let’s go down,” Randel said, descending the stairs from the wall. “It’s time.”
Down below, it was noisy. Beastfolk checked their weapons, adjusted harnesses, and spoke in low, guttural voices. Among them hurried humans — former slaves, runaway peasants, and city militiamen.
Randel and his knights stood apart. Fifty horsemen in Aichenwald armor, with Aichenwald swords and Aichenwald steeds. They no longer hid — their cloaks were discarded, crests openly displayed.
Thor noticed them first.
“Look,” he growled, pointing with his axe. “The mercenaries have dropped their cloaks. Aichenwald wolves, damn them… Finally admitted it themselves.”
“We’re not here to fight you,” Randel said, riding closer. “We’re here to help.”
“Help?” Thor bared his fangs. “And what do you want for this ‘help’?”
“Nothing,” Randel dismounted. “Not today.”
Thor was about to reply, but fell silent as Kaelan rode up to them. The Reaper moved behind him like a shadow — black armor, black cloak, helmet with glowing red lenses.
“Mercenary,” Kaelan reined in his horse. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”
“I’m looking for work,” Randel shrugged. “Today, there is some.”
Amanda’s brother studied him with a long look, then shifted his gaze to the knights — tall, clad in steel, with swords that cost more than the entire city.
“Good blades,” he said. “Expensive ones.”
“Good mercenaries earn good coin.”
“You’re not a mercenary,” Kaelan smirked. “But today I don’t care. Where will you stand?”
“In the center,” Randel didn’t argue. “Holding the gates. Your beastfolk strike from the flanks.”
Kaelan looked surprised. He glanced at the Reaper — the black figure remained silent, red lenses staring straight ahead.
“Good plan,” he said. “Hold the gates. We’ll strike when the Khan commits all his forces to the assault.”
“If you don’t make it in time…”
“We will,” Kaelan replied, turning his horse. “Reaper, with me.”
The black figure moved after him without a word.
Randel watched them go.
“My lord,” Erhard stepped closer. “Are you sure? If they don’t return…”
“They will,” Randel cut him off. “Kaelan wants to live. And she…”
He fell silent.
“My lord?”
“Nothing,” Randel shook his head. “Mount up. It won’t be a battle soon — it’ll be a slaughter.”
The first blow from the khan came at dawn.
Catapults thundered in a massive barrage, smashing into the adobe walls. The gates shattered, leaving a gaping wound where the enemy cavalry was meant to flood through. In just a few hours, the khan’s infantry filled every ditch around the city, despite suffering heavy losses.
Thousands of riders burst from the steppe like a swarm of locusts. The ground trembled beneath their hooves, and the air rang with war cries and the bellow of battle horns.
Randel stood at the ruined gates with fifty knights behind him. At their backs waited the militia, spears gripped tight.
“Hold the line!” Randel shouted. “Do not break formation!”
The first wave of horsemen slammed into their shields. Lances cracked, horses screamed and fell, men roared in agony. The knights held firm—Aichenwald steel endured what shattered the steppe nomads’ armor.
Randel fought in the front rank. His sword sang in his hand, cleaving through shields, mail, and flesh. He didn’t think about who stood before him—only about the line that had to hold. Only about the time they needed to buy.
“My lord!” Falk called, falling back toward him. “The flanks! They’re going around us!”
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Randel glanced over. On both sides, the steppe warriors were already pouring through the breaches in the wall, outflanking their formation.
“Hold the center!” Randel bellowed. “We cannot retreat!”
“They’ll surround us!”
“Send the militia to the flanks! Maintain the line!” Randel hacked down another rider, hurling him from the saddle. “We’re not here to win. We’re here to buy time!”
Falk opened his mouth to reply, but froze, staring out into the steppe.
“My lord…” he whispered. “Look.”
Randel turned.
From the southern steppe, beyond the hills, black riders poured forth. Beastfolk. At their head rode Kaëlan with his blade drawn, and just ahead of him, a dark figure on a black horse. The cloak billowed like a wing, and the sword gleamed in the sunlight.
The Reaper.
They struck the khan’s army in the flank like a knife through butter. Thor’s axes crushed everything in their path, wolves tore out the throats of horses, and bears snapped riders’ spines. And at the center of the storm, she moved.
Randel watched the Reaper fight. Not like a person—like a force of nature. The sword was barely visible, only black streaks that left bodies falling in their wake. Five, ten, twenty enemies in a single minute. Riders scattered like pins, horses collapsed, men screamed. Seeing the carnage, the nomads began to break and flee.
Kaëlan stayed close, guarding the Reaper’s flank, fighting with the savage fury of a man who had survived the stone quarries and knew the true price of freedom. Together, they carved a bloody path straight through the khan’s ranks.
“Gods…” Falk breathed. “Are they even human?”
Randel didn’t answer. He stared at the black figure, and something stirred in his chest—something he refused to name.
The battle had already raged for six hours when everything went wrong.
The khan committed his reserves — fresh riders who had been held back until now. They did not strike the center, where Randel’s knights still held firm, nor the flank where the beastfolk were carving their bloody path. Instead, they slammed directly into the small detachment where Kaëlan and the Reaper were fighting their way toward the khan’s headquarters.
“Kaëlan!” one of the beastfolk shouted. “Behind you!”
He spun around. A wall of flying spears was hurtling toward him. He managed to duck, deflect two, three… but the fourth spear punched straight into his right shoulder — the very arm that held his sword.
He screamed. Not from pain, but from pure rage. The sword slipped from his loosening fingers and clattered to the ground. His arm hung limp, the shaft of the spear jutting grotesquely from his shoulder.
“Kaëlan!” The Reaper whirled, slashing the nearest rider from his saddle. “Hold on!”
“I’m fine!” Kaëlan snarled, seizing the reins with his left hand. “Keep going! Don’t stop!”
But the Reaper wasn’t listening anymore. He circled Kaëlan protectively, shielding him with his impenetrable black armor and cutting down anyone who came too close. His sword moved faster now, his strikes sharper, more vicious.
“I said keep going!” Kaëlan shouted, but his voice cracked. Blood poured from the wound, and his head was beginning to spin.
“Thor!” the Reaper called. “Cover us!”
The massive bear-like warrior smashed through the fray, hurling two riders aside with a single swing of his axe.
“Take him!” the Reaper ordered, pointing at Kaëlan. “Get him back to the gates!”
“And you, my lord?”
“I’ll hold them here!”
“Reaper!”
“I said take him!” The Reaper’s voice turned metallic, cold, and brooking no argument.
Thor grabbed the reins of Kaëlan’s horse and surged toward the gates. The beastfolk closed ranks around them, beating back the attacks.
The Reaper remained behind. Alone — or as alone as he could be. The invisible Leo and Torglin were still there, silently cutting down anyone who drew too near.
Randel saw it all from a distance. He watched the black figure turn alone to face the oncoming tide of horsemen. He saw the Reaper raise his sword. He saw…
“My lord!” Erhard yanked at his shoulder. “My lord, they’re breaking through!”
Randel snapped back to reality. The nomads had indeed shattered the flank. Riders were already pouring into the city through the breached walls.
“Fall back to the walls!” he roared. “Falk, hold the gates! Erhard — with me!”
He charged toward the breach, his sword singing in his hand as it hacked, crushed, and destroyed. His knights followed, and the steppe warriors began to give ground.
And behind Randel, out in the steppe, the lone black figure fought on — one against a hundred.
Kaelan was carried into the infirmary half an hour later.
He had lost a lot of blood. His face was deathly pale, white as a sheet. The broken shaft of the spear still protruded from his shoulder. The healer examined the wound and slowly shook his head.
“Poison,” he said grimly. “The arm cannot be saved. If we don’t amputate now, the toxin will spread and he’ll die.”
“Cut it,” Kaelan rasped. “I’ll survive.”
They gave him a strip of leather to bite down on. The healer took up the saw.
Kaelan did not scream. He only clenched his teeth so hard that the veins on his forehead bulged. When it was over, he finally lost consciousness.
Randel found the Reaper at the gates.
The black figure sat on a stone, sword resting across his knees. The armor was covered in blood — some of it belonging to others, some his own. The cloak was torn, and a deep gash marred his side.
“You’re alive,” Randel said, approaching.
“Alive,” the Reaper replied. His voice was hollow. Exhausted.
“Kaelan… he lost his arm.”
“I know,” the Reaper said without lifting his head. “I saw.”
“You saved him. If it weren’t for you…”
“I didn’t save him,” the Reaper interrupted, finally raising his head. The red lenses stared straight at Randel. “I wasn’t fast enough. I was too slow.”
“You were in the middle of the melee. You couldn’t—”
“I should have been,” the Reaper said, standing up. “I should have been faster. Stronger. Better. I failed him.”
“You saved his life.”
“And he lost his arm,” the Reaper stepped forward. “The arm he used to hold his sword. The arm he fought with. The arm that made him a leader. Now he’s nothing.”
“He’s not nothing,” Randel replied, refusing to back down. “He’s Kaelan. The man who started the uprising. The man who led his people. A hand doesn’t make the leader.”
“You don’t understand,” the Reaper turned away. “You have no idea what it means to—”
He fell silent. Inside the armor, Amanda nearly confessed everything to him.
“What does it mean?” Randel asked, sensing something.
“Nothing,” the Reaper said, already walking toward the city. “Go back to your men. The battle is over.”
“This isn’t the end,” Randel called after him. “You know that. The khan will return. Or he’ll send an envoy. The war isn’t finished.”
The Reaper stopped.
“I know,” he said quietly.
He walked away without looking back.
Randel watched him go, and a heavy weight stirred in his chest — something he could not name.
The lazaret was quiet that night. Amanda sat by Kaelan's bedside. Her brother was asleep, pale and gaunt. His right arm ended in a stump, thick with ointments and bandages.
“Will he survive?” she asked the healer.
“Yes, my master,” the old man bowed deeply. “But the arm… we could not save it. He will never wield a sword again.”
“Leave us,” she said.
The healer bowed once more and quietly slipped out of the room.
Amanda remained alone with her brother. She studied his face in the dim light, memories flooding back — the burning village, the desperate flight through the night. In truth, he wasn’t her real brother. The original Amanda had died of fever long ago. Now it was Yamada Aoi who inhabited this body. And yet, after six months of struggling to survive and adapt in this brutal new world, Kaelan had become family to her in every way that mattered.
“My brother,” she whispered into his ear as silent tears slipped down her cheeks. “Please don’t die.”
Kaelan didn’t answer. He only breathed — slow, labored, ragged.
Amanda reached out and took his left hand — the one that was still whole — and squeezed it tightly.
“I won’t leave you,” she said softly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if…”
She never finished the sentence.