The wall of logs stood firm against the dark night, its sharpened tips slicing into the sky like spears raised in defiance. Silver moonlight bathed the village, glinting off the stone walls and wooden rooftops, weaving flickering patterns of shadow and flame as it mingled with the glow of torches and pyres scattered through the streets and atop the watchtowers. The wind was cold, carrying the scent of burnt wood and damp earth—the lingering trace of recent rains.
The village never truly slept—my guards, clad in reinforced leather armor and gripping spears, patrolled the narrow paths, their silhouettes casting long shadows over stone and packed dirt. The villagers, on the other hand, rested in silence. This wasn't a place of laughter or music once night fell. If it had ever been, that had ended long ago, especially after the latest tensions.
I walked the perimeter atop the wall, my steps echoing faintly against the compacted timber. My gaze swept across the fortifications, noting the towers placed with intent—each one manned by a watchful soldier. We'd expanded quickly—perhaps too quickly—but it had been necessary. The land we claimed could not be allowed to slip back into enemy hands. Every house built, every inch of ground annexed into the village was a step toward the future we chose when we fled that kingdom.
Rounding a curve in the wall, I saw her. A figure standing out in the flicker of firelight against the dark wood. A woman—but not just any woman. Her presence felt carved from the night itself, as if the moon had shaped her and set her there for me to find.
Her skin was pale, catching the firelight with a faint pearlescent sheen. Her hair, somewhere between golden and light brown, flowed freely in the night breeze—loose, but well cared for, like strands of polished silk. Her eyes were a deep, entrancing blue—the kind of blue that lives just after the sun dips below the horizon—full of something between mystery and unspoken resolve. Her lips, naturally flushed, curved in a calm, unreadable expression.
She wore a thick cloak suited for the cold, clasped at her shoulder by a weathered bronze brooch shaped like a symbol I didn't recognize. Beneath the cloak, a dark-toned tunic draped over her slim figure—enough to show the stance of someone used to movement, to action. She wasn't delicate, not really. Her hands, revealed by sleeves that had slipped back slightly, were long-fingered and refined, yet steady—hands that had known weapons, even if now they only rested lightly on the parapet.
She didn't seem surprised by my presence. She simply watched me, eyes catching the flicker of the flames. The wind moved again, and her hair danced in the air, as if the night itself conspired to make her even more mesmerizing.
I stopped just short of her. The silence between us held, broken only by the distant steps of patrolling soldiers and the crackle of fire.
I studied Elizabeth for a moment, watching how the torchlight shifted across her face. The "Delicate Smith," they called her. A title that sounded like a contradiction to most—but not to me. I'd seen her work: blades so fine and balanced they cut the air itself, gears so small and precise they moved with something like magic inside contraptions no one else could even begin to understand.
She was the one to break the silence, her voice soft but clear.
— You can't sleep either?
— No.
— And your daughter? Is she asleep?
I turned my gaze past the wall, to where the village lay hushed under the tremble of torchlight. The cold hit my face again, carrying the scent of scorched wood and hot metal—a scent that always seemed to cling to her.
— Yes. — My voice was heavy with weariness. — But she's been asking about the attack.
Elizabeth paused, her eyes revealing a worry she didn't bother to hide.
— Then she knows.
— She feels it. — I corrected, the word feels landing harder than I expected. — No matter what I say, she knows something's coming. And when she asks if I'll come back... I don't know what to tell her.
She watched me in silence for a long moment, like she was trying to pull something from me I couldn't quite express. Then she breathed in, slowly.
— I still think it's a terrible idea.
I frowned, feeling tension rise. But before I could answer, she continued.
— But the cause is right. If we succeed... — She looked toward the horizon, eyes chasing the line between possible and impossible. — We'll free a lot of lives. That matters.
I rubbed my face, the fatigue settling deeper in my bones. She was right—I knew that. But the fear never left me.
— I know. But I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something.
The wind stirred again, and for a moment, silence wrapped around us.
Then Elizabeth turned fully toward me, arms crossed over her chest. Firelight painted her hair in golden streaks and brought a sharper gleam to her eyes.
— I'm going with you.
My brow furrowed.
— No.
She raised an eyebrow—challenging.
— No?
I sighed, already anticipating what was coming.
— You're an exceptional warrior, Elizabeth. But Charloth... I need you here.
— And you think I'm more useful staying behind, protecting a child, than fighting? — Her voice was steady—devoid of anger, but filled with a cold certainty. — She means the world to me, but many will stay to care for the village.
— I believe you can do both. But if something goes wrong...
— If something goes wrong — she cut in, calm as someone who had already weighed the cost a thousand times — I want to be there. To make sure we can fix it.
I closed my eyes. My body already felt worn down. But she was right. Elizabeth wasn't just a blacksmith — she was a strategist, a fighter. Maybe the only person I truly trusted in every way.
— You're not going to change your mind, are you?
She gave a faint smile.
— If it were easy to change my mind, I would've walked away long ago.
I rubbed a hand across my face, exhausted.
— Fine. But I'm afraid something might happen to Charloth...
— Nothing will happen.
We fell into silence again, only the wind filling the space between us. Then Elizabeth changed the subject.
— How are we going to cross the desert?
I looked toward the horizon, where the full moon spilled light across the distant dunes, the shadows rippling like something alive.
— That won't be a problem. We have enough supplies for the crossing. Coming back might be harder. But we'll find something when we get there.
She nodded, thoughtful.
— We're risking too much.
— Yes — I agreed, the weight of our decision pressing harder against my shoulders. — But we'd be hypocrites if we didn't try to help.
The wind blew stronger, and the scent of iron and smoke lingered in the air. Deep down, I knew we weren't going to rescue people—we were chasing an army. But I would never tell her that.