Give them water!” Lambert bellowed, sprinting toward the soldier closest to him, his boots thudding against the stone floor as panic swept through the hall. Around him, others rushed to obey, grabbing cups and jugs, desperate to help the afflicted.
Asher took a cup, the rim cool against his palm. But after a single step, he halted.
He stared down at the water—still, save for the gentle ripples spreading across its surface. His eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening like a blade.
Something was wrong.
He watched the soldiers drink, and instead of relief, their convulsions worsened. The coughing grew more violent. Blood now painted lips and splattered the floor.
It wasn’t a cure—it was the cause.
“Stop… stop giving them the water!” Asher roared, his voice thunderous, cracking through the hall like a whip.
Every hand froze.
The room fell into a chilling silence, broken only by the rasping, guttural coughs of the stricken. Then, like falling dominos, hundreds more began to choke—men who moments ago had laughed and raised their cups.
Asher’s eyes swept the chaos. In that instant, he noticed something vital: his men—those who had eaten the dragon meat—stood unaffected. While all around them, soldiers of House Nubis collapsed in agony, the Dark Skies and Heavy Infantry buckled under the same fate.
His jaw clenched.
The truth struck him like a blade—the water had been poisoned. But his own soldiers, altered at the core by the draconic flesh they had consumed, were immune. To them, such poison was no more than a mild toxin—insignificant, almost laughable.
Boom!
The castle doors groaned open as a flood of apothecaries surged in, their robes brushing the stone as they fanned out with urgency. Behind them came a small procession of healers, followed by a dozen crimson-robed priests and priestesses from the Temple of the Flame, their faces grim.
Asher turned his gaze toward General Clegane. Veins bulged beneath the older man’s skin as he bent over his fallen soldiers, barking orders and desperately trying to keep them alive, his great hands trembling with helpless fury.
Saying nothing, Asher spun on his heel and strode toward the door. Nero fell in step beside him without needing a word. Behind them came the chief paladins—Eleazar, Moses, Levi, and Simon—silent and grim.
General Clegane, Alec, and several other commanders moved quickly to follow.
“It’s the water, isn’t it?” Clegane growled through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse with rage. “Count Wyvern would sink that low.”
“It’s war,” Asher said, his voice flat, eyes ahead. “The winner dictates history.”
But though his tone was cold, his clenched fist told another story—one of fury seething beneath the surface, molten and merciless.
Their boots struck the cold stone floor with an uneven rhythm, echoing through the dark corridor as they made their way underground. Torches cast flickering shadows on the walls, dancing like ghosts as the group descended into the depths of the castle. When they reached the cistern, a wide, vaulted chamber opened before them, filled with the still, glistening surface of stored water—a silent sea that now brimmed with suspicion.
The air was damp and stale.
Asher walked to the edge, crouched low, and cupped his hands into the reservoir. He brought the water to his lips, not to drink, but to study it. The liquid was clear. Cool. Harmless by all appearances.
There was no odor. No discoloration. No floating remnants. Nothing that betrayed its treachery.
No clue at all.
Was this the work of an insider?
Had Count Wyvern truly outmaneuvered him?
He stood, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“It was definitely poisoned,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “I don’t know who did it… but we should expect an attack from Count Wyvern soon.”
General Clegane shifted beside him, his brow furrowed with both fury and concern. “If our water’s been tainted, how are we meant to fight a war dehydrated?”
“Our reserves aboveground wouldn’t last two weeks,” Alec replied grimly, stepping forward. The lines of stress carved deeper into his temples. “And if we can’t determine how this one was poisoned, then the rest could easily suffer the same fate.”
Asher turned slightly, eyes narrowed with decision. “Have Uriah follow the movements of the United Army. I want to know the moment they prepare to strike.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel, footsteps fading into the growing tension that thickened the air like mist.
…
Hours passed.
Asher now stood in one of the castle’s side chambers, his figure framed by the faint torchlight that barely reached the corners. The floor was lined with makeshift bedding—cloths and blankets spread out wherever there was space. Rows of men lay there—groaning, coughing, unmoving.
Some twitched with pain, others lay still, sweat soaking their bodies. A few had descended into silence too deep to be called sleep.
Every so often, a pair of arms would lift another corpse and carry it out.
Death moved quietly here, but constantly.
The chief apothecary approached, his footsteps soft, hesitant.
“Over a hundred are dead,” he said slowly. “The rest… they won’t be fit for battle. Not soon.”
Asher’s gaze didn’t shift from the broken men lying before him. His voice, when it came, was cold and grim.
“So we’ve lost ten thousand men.”
The apothecary gave a slow, solemn nod, the weight of the truth settling over them both like a shroud.
“I see,” Asher murmured, though in his heart, the silence screamed louder than any words could.
….
In the early hours of morning, when the world still slumbered beneath a blanket of dew and mist clung to the grass like breath on glass, thousands of House Wyvern soldiers began their silent march.
Those who had not been wounded in the previous battle, along with the fresh troops held in reserve and the remaining Immortals, moved like shadows through the thinning fog.
Their armour barely clinked. Their footsteps were measured. Even the wyverns were left behind—this assault was to be swift and surgical.
As they approached Castle Black, the towering stone walls loomed through the morning haze. And then, something unexpected—the main gate stood wide open.
The commander of the Immortals halted, raising a clenched fist. The column stopped at once.
His eyes narrowed.
A trap?
He scrutinised the gate, but saw no signs of motion, no guards, no defensive formations waiting to spring.
No one would leave their gate unbarred unless they’d all fallen.
He glanced back over his shoulder, then muttered an order.
“Advance. Slowly.”
The light infantry moved first, halberds in hand, breaking into disciplined formations. With silent resolve, they surged forward, crossing the threshold of Castle Black’s great gate. Hundreds of them poured into the courtyard, boots splashing in shallow puddles left by the dawn’s dew.
Still no resistance.
No arrows. No shouts.
Only the distant caw of a bird and the soft whistle of wind against stone.
Castle Black seemed dead.