Hiero gazed east as the horns sustained their call. He had returned to the walls before the cannons began firing. Through Molding, he enlarged his eyes into that of the owl king, this time allowing his skull’s sockets to deform and widen to fit them better.

The Blighted Multitude in the distance had again sent tendrils, thousands of fiends in each, snaking across the plains. From atop the tower, Hiero spotted the first of the light-forsaken reach the outskirts of the ruined city that Aderenthyn Citadel used to watch over. Darkness his eyes couldn’t pierce coated the worn blocks and toppled pillars once dwellings of Gaolyans thousands of years gone.

“I thought we had a couple more hours before the next battle,” Hiero muttered.

This was a repeat of when the cities of the East fell. The Blighted Multitude would splinter shoots from its mass, each more numerous and with stronger monsters than the last. Again and again, the attacks would come, the time between waves shrinking. It’d continue until the defenders were defeated or the infection took root.

Only when those within the walls were embroiled in bitter infighting would the main body march and gobble all.

Hiero couldn’t fathom this strategy. Was the Blighted toying with them?

Perhaps it was digesting them somehow, whittling their minds until they’d succumb to the Blight by themselves and be easier to assimilate. Several spiders wrapped their prey in webs, liquefying them in cocoons before eating. This might be akin to it. The Blighted was preparing its prey—them—for… something.

Whatever the reason for their behavior was, it gave Hiero time for his plans.

After finding Mitho, Alluverius Fahllyr and his entourage had another assignment. Alluverius had to join the defense, but his squires and hirelings infiltrated the Gaolyan palaces and tunnels while most soldiers were away. Mitho continued to design the networks he’d weave into Hiero’s aileh veins. And Hiero had a few more trusted people turning other cogs of his machinations.

Trusted. Hiero trusted them in that he knew they’d fulfill their roles.

He trusted no one enough to reveal to them the true plan.

The distant view blurred and retreated as Hiero’s normal eyes returned. He blinked, adjusting to the darkness. After experiencing what an owl king could see, a human seemed blind in comparison.

Torches and radiant crystals lined the walls. They were lost when the Blighted overrun their positions but had been hastily replaced for the next battle. Large pyres blazed atop the towers like the brilliant head plumes of the faedove. Hiero cast long shadows because of the flames behind him; its heat made his numerous thaumaturgically sewn wounds throb.

But all these lights weren’t much help against the pervading black smoke carrying its own brand of darkness. It was as if storm clouds had descended upon them.

With cloths affixed across their noses and mouths, Farlusen soldiers, hailing from the steppes near the Dust forges, hurried to clear the ramparts of the remaining Blighted dead from the previous battle. They used long spears to push the corpses up to the sides, not daring to touch them or come any closer, and used blocks as pivots to turn their poles into levers. It took three men to dump one body mired in slime over the battlements.

Thrown off the walls, the smoldering corpses landed onto mounds of the same dozens of feet below. Hiero could no longer see them, but he could hear some of the bodies continue tumbling down the side of the hill the Citadel sat on.

“Form ranks! Quickly form ranks!” The voice of Bollaghan rang loud, speaking in Tomeh, the common language of trade for both halves of Tabithala. To Hiero's annoyance, he volunteered his company to stand guard where their brothers fell—the section of the wall assigned to Hiero.

It probably had something to do with honor. Again.   

Bollaghan led the Silver Bullets through the busy Farlusens, a stream of gray and blue among the leather brown and metal red from reflecting fires. They marched straight as possible, never flinching, even near Blighted corpses. The mercenaries leaned the barrel of their rifles on their right shoulders; a large pouch of Dust was strapped over their left.

No, not mercenaries. The Silver Bullets weren’t getting a whiff of a coin for this, not from old man Grammaton nor any other lord.

They were fighting for their survival, families, and other loved ones—everything west of Aderenthyn Citadel. A number were from the east; those men fought for revenge.

Stoic faces under bare heads and unevenly chopped hairs told Hiero that the Silver Bullets had no illusion that money would still mean something if the Blighted Multitude got past this fortress. They had accepted that they’d meet their ends here like their brothers.

Another example of honor, Hiero could tell. But it brought him no closer to finding out what it was for.

The Silver Bullets formed two rows on the outward-facing side of ramparts, parallel to the battlements. Dustgunners nestled their weapons between merlons, one man for each gap. Another stood behind the first to aid in reloading. Farlusens, with their swords and spears, patrolled the inner half of the walkways, ready for close combat if ever the Blighted scaled the walls.

If. A big if.  

Let the blasted light-forsaken try latching their body ramps onto the walls again, Hiero thought as he looked over his shoulder. Their mounds would be decimated as they rose.

Like a defiant jarwolf, a magnicannon bombard stood in place of a pyre on the tower behind him. The taller tower jutted out of the succeeding line of walls, offsetting the outer ones like where he stood.

A magnicannon bombard was a gleaming black monstrosity as large as four groffs, not counting its massive column of a barrel. Golden carvings of Gaolyan sigils accented with Cores laced its body. Its barrel was angled high as its crew, wearing vests with the cog emblem, fussed over it.

Only a few hours had passed since the war council set the new strategy, and a mere half of the fourteen bombards had been transferred to their new positions on the towers of the second wall.

Layers of Core shields rose like giant translucent petals enclosing the top of the tower while the Khayo magi conjured overlapping spellbound protection circles around its circumference. Smaller cannons and rifles of the Dustgunners pointed out like bristling thorns. Though lacking a pyre, the tower shone brighter than others because of its defenses, like a beacon in a fog-filled night—a source of hope for those within the walls and an obvious target for those without.

Clustered around the magnicannon itself were elite Farlusen warriors at the ready with crackling blades, Core swordsmen all. They were recognizable by their bright purple sashes over nondescript armor. With them were Flesh Molders and Melders transforming into their favored beasts or a mixture of them in the case of the latter. Those blessed with robust internal aileh could morph beyond twice the height of a man, but they could never match the size Draecontyrs could attain, for the latter drew aileh from the surroundings for growth.

Heavily fortified it might be, the defenses needed to be more robust for such a war asset. There was no time to prepare. But it was decided to transfer the bombards as fast as possible; otherwise, the previous battle would be repeated with worse consequences.

It was on Hiero and the other Draecontyrs to defend the magnicannons for this battle.

There must really be gods, Hiero mused. Everything fit so well beyond his expectations that no one would ever suspect his intentions.

Hiero craned his neck to observe the magnicannon bombard powering up—its barrel unraveled like a blossoming flower while purple powders of light swirled as if blown pollens—when the hulking hull of an airscrew barge breached the thick smoke above. The bright glow of the Core shields and magic circles illuminated the barge’s underbelly and the flight of griffin riders hovering close to it like fledglings of a broodwren.  

“How fares the battlefield, Draecontyr?” asked a firm voice over the mechanical din of the approaching barge.

The pyre on Hiero’s tower surged, causing the soldiers to start. Twin tongues of flames coiled down the tall stack of wood and stone, taking the shape of a man walking towards Hiero.  

It was the young Khayo magus from the war council, boasting the ruby of a Master Gardener. He had tied his long hair back. The large gem on his forehead and the smaller ones lining his brow glinted from the pyre’s flames.

“I hope I’m not making a fool of myself conversing about war tactics,” he said with an amiable smile, the flames solidifying into robes and golden chains. “I must confess I don’t have any experience in battle beyond sparring matches between mind gardens.”

“Most of the people here,” Hiero said, “haven’t experienced a battle against an enemy like this.” He gestured to the utter darkness on the horizon just as a flaming purple globe sailed through the sky, showering them bright.

The magnicannon had fired without any noise or blast.

Hiero and the Khayo magus stared at the purple ball gradually dwindling from the size of a merchant’s wagon to a shinty orb to a speck of light as it soared further away. Hiero Molded his eyes to observe the impact. The ball arced back down to the earth as if melting into it, momentarily swallowed by the march of the Blighted.  

An explosion followed.

The air expanded outward, blasting back the black smoke. Ancient houses were leveled like crumbs swept off the table. Scores of the Blighted dissipated into nothingness in a single flash. Rings of purple flames emanated from the point of explosion like ripples in the water.

And then the sound of the explosion reached them.

The Khayo magus instinctively crouched, chains clinking, raising his robes to cover his face. Then he noticed nothing had happened to him. The explosion was too far away.

Embarrassed, he straightened himself, pretending to smoothen his robes.

The first shot signaled the rest of the batteries to join the choir. Myriad fireballs of various colors flew—there were other magnicannons, lesser than the bombards—like angry brush strokes on black canvas.

“Nothing noteworthy on the battlefield,” Hiero said in answer to the earlier question, almost shouting to make himself heard over the noise. He undid his Molding as he faced the magus. He’d look silly if he retained aspects of the owl king, especially the bowl-sized eyes. “This wave is about double the last. Still increasing. But it shouldn't be an issue with all the Draecontyrs participating in this battle.”

“Tha-that is a relief,” the magus replied, finding his voice. The purple light of another fireball passing overhead caught the creases of concern on his forehead.

“What’s your name?”

“Clement Tiberius.” He regained his confidence after announcing his name. The way he spoke was as if he expected Hiero to recognize it.

“The famous Tiberius…” Hiero said, nodding. He wasn’t familiar with the Khayo upper echelons, secretive groffs who wouldn’t allow him pass to any of their mind gardens. Learning the arts of the Khayo would’ve helped him unravel the secrets of the dragon’s breath.

“Yes, I’m the grandson of that Tiberius.” Clement stood taller, resolute despite the ongoing barrage that rolled like thunder.

Hiero assumed Clement must be related to one of the aged gits of the Enlightened Circle of Khayo. The lad definitely inherited his grandfather’s skill and intellect to earn the ruby on his head this young. If fate had taken a different course and the Blight didn’t come to be, Clement would’ve become an aged git himself someday, sitting like a curled tree in the center of their mind garden.

It was also possible that Clement would take the Khayo in a different direction. He seemed open and outgoing, unlike older Khayo, even learning ‘less intellectual’ languages and braving the outside world to fight the Blight. The magi that came with him didn’t look old enough to be Elder Gardeners—those walking fossils probably shut themselves in their gardens to hide.

Was it possible to convince Clement to join his cause?

Likely Clement would oppose both his fake and true plan, considering them sacrilegious defilement of the heart node. But if the lad proved pragmatic, he’d understand that the Blighted Multitude would eventually push them out of Aderenthyn Citadel.

Prying Khayo’s secrets from Clement would be easier than trying to steal mind crystals from their fortress gardens, not that there was time to do the latter now. Anything that could help Hiero strengthen the explosion of his body as a living bomb would be welcome.

“I know the Khayo mind gardens have kept to themselves more these years,” Hiero said. “Avoiding the mundanity of the world, living a monastic life in search of knowledge as your predecessors did. I understand that, but I’m grateful you came here. The other Khayo magi too.”

“We can’t live like our predecessors if the Blight consumes the mind gardens,” Clement answered, a sad note in his voice.

“Was it hard convincing your Elders?”

Clement’s brows arched in surprise. “How did you—? You guessed?” Hiero nodded. Clement sighed. “Their stubborn hermit tendencies are famous, it seems. It was difficult to gain their permission, but my grandfather relented when I threatened to leave the garden. I reckon it was more to preserve his prestige than agreeing to—Ah, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s rare to hear someone wanting to leave a mind garden,” Hiero said. “Especially with your family entrenched within and losing all your hard work for that Master Gardener’s ruby. Very brave of you.”

“Brave doesn’t describe me. There was no other choice.”

There’s always a choice, Hiero thought. Wait for death—most had chosen that, the majority of them, unknowingly.  

Clement ran his thumb over the gem on his forehead. It glowed as if it had embers inside. “This wouldn’t have any value if I turned into one of them,” he said, tilting his head to the approaching tide of shadows.

The light from the explosions revealed the white stone remnants of the once great civilization as if weathered giant bones in a long-forgotten battlefield. The magnicannons punched holes into the blanket of darkness covering the ruins, only to be patched by more of the Blighted the next second.

No matter how many of them died, they came. It was endless.

“That’s how it is,” Hiero said. “A concept so simple, yet so few of us are defending this chokepoint to the west.”

“I can’t understand…” Clement said, his voice drifting towards the end, the wailing creaks of the airscrew barge passing masked his mumbles. Hiero could guess what Clement was saying, for he had asked himself the same questions.

Comparing himself to others, he readily found the answer.

“Fear,” Hiero said. “It is fear.” The word felt awkward on his tongue, as if repeating an unknown language he had heard once.

Similar to honor, the concept of fear was foreign to him. For what was it for?

As the next man, Hiero also didn’t want to die or become one of the Blighted. But he didn’t fear it. Same as not wanting to get a cold but not fearing it. When he was a child, people thought him slow for not understanding them. It took him some time to grasp what he couldn’t feel.

“Fear prevents others from coming here and standing with us,” Hiero explained. “They know what to do. Everyone knows. But those not with us think those fighting will die first, so they’re saving themselves by staying away.” He pointed at Clement. “As I said, you are brave.”

“Ye-yes.” Clement bowed his head. “Thank you for your praise, Draecontyr.” His eyes honed on Hiero’s hand. “Are you injured? Your hands weren’t bandaged during the council.”

Hiero nonchalantly lowered his hand; he had forgotten to hide it in his eagerness to make a good impression on Clement. “Injuries from previous battles,” he said, letting his arm drop to his side instead of hiding it behind his back.

The airscrew barge, flying low not to get hit by their magnicannons, fired its forward Dust sakers.

Unlike the magnicannons, they make quite a loud noise, igniting Dust to propel heavy round shots through their barrels with the force of the explosion. Though very much effective in bringing down other barges, tearing modest fortifications, and shredding through humans, the Dust sakers didn’t have the destructive force of the magnicannons in holding back the Blighted.

Hiero timed his nonsense explanation with the deafening volley. “Some fractures… I wrap them in between battles with ointments to heal.”

Clement nodded as if he understood; asking Hiero to repeat himself would be awkward. “Can’t you reconstruct your arms?” he tentatively inquired. “I know Flesh Molders can only make bodies, not their own, but I thought the Draeontyr could heal yourselves as well.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t,” Hiero replied. “The dragons also can’t remake injured flesh and bones. Filtering aileh from the outside is for powering the dragon’s breath. For the Draecontyr, we use it to World Meld, building massive bodies, hence the name ‘Scaled Titans.’ But once we undo the Melding, we’d return our bodies to the same state it was before, healthy or otherwise.”

Injuries for Flesh Molders and Melders were more complicated than that. It was an inconsistency in the person’s image, making it harder to control the changes. Novices may find healed wounds reopening after they undid their Molding. For Hiero, he had once Molded into a kawu snake while his stomach was sliced open to escape the battlefield and stop the bleeding until he could find help, so he wasn’t too concerned with his wounds.

His problem was Mitho’s work in his arms.

If the gods would have it, the aileh threading wouldn’t cause any problems for Hiero’s Melding. He couldn’t hide away for an entire day or however long it’d take for Mitho to finish. Not after making an impassioned speech for all the Draecontyrs to defend the walls.

Since the gods, whoever they were, had blessed him so far, he prayed they’d continue their favor until… the end. The literal end times Hiero would bring about.

“I didn’t wear bandages during the council,” Hiero said, “because it might affect the morale of others.”

“Admirable…” Clement said, his bright eyes filled with respect. “You have thought that far.”

Hiero looked away, scratching the back of his head to feign embarrassment. His fingers stung as he curved them. His raised arm burned like red-hot metal stakes had been driven to his bone. He slowed his breathing to adjust to the pain.

“You think too highly of me, Clement,” Hiero said. He nodded toward the airscrew barge and added, “Look, it’s firing. The Blighted will soon be in the range of your spells. Aren’t you going to return to your fellow gardeners?”

“I will. Soon.” Clement grinned. “After I see how we fare compared to the magnicannons.”

Hiero laughed at the silly competitiveness. In some other path of time, he would’ve been good friends with Clement. But, very likely, they wouldn’t have met if not for the Blighted Multitude marching across Tabithala. Amusing how that worked.

“I’m sure the Khayo can roast their share of the light-forsaken,” Hiero said. “I know your Elders can match the powerful breath of lesser dragons.”

“Some of the Elders might view that an insult,” said Clement, turning his grin into a conniving smirk.

New circles—surging and summoning ones, if Hiero’s reading of the runes was correct—emerged around the tower that was the magnicannon ‘outpost.’

Several Khayo magi, chains and gems aglow, stood atop merlons and raised platforms. They waved their arms, coaxing the golden chains that weightlessly looped around them. Faster and faster, their hands moved. The chains left floating writings of fire in their trail.

The magic circles overlapped, their brilliance multiplying. Then, they turned—the first clockwise, the next counter-clockwise, and so on. Hiero sensed the aileh drain into the magic circles as if it were a sinkhole. This was the same sensation when he was near a Draecontyr that was World Melding.

“Here it comes,” Clement said with excitement in his eyes. He should’ve seen something like this dozens of times before, but his passion for the Khayo arts showed.  

The ethereal head of a colossal serpent emerged from the magic circles. It open its fanged maw wide. From its gullet emerged a fireball, not unlike that of the magnicannon but golden in color and much brighter, making an island of day in the perpetual night.

The fireball swooshed forward.

Hiero snapped his head the other way to follow its trajectory. It fragmented into many fireballs, raining down on the charging Blighted. Explosions unfurled, monsters and debris tossed high as torrents of fire halted the flow of shadows.

More fireballs followed. Throughout the outer wall, other Khayo magi groups unleashed their destructive spells on the Blighted horde closing in.

“Very impressive,” Hiero whistled. “I might not need to fight.” It didn’t hurt to praise the Khayo for the benefit of Clement, for indeed, the handiwork of these lower Gardeners could match a dragon’s breath.

“You jest, Draecontyr.” Clement bowed in kepe kumapag, as Sinra-Jul had said. False humility. Hiero could tell Clement’s unreserved pride in his mind garden from his voice and face. Deservedly so.

Like the magnicannons, the magi were sustained by aileh canisters refilled from the node. They wouldn’t be able to keep this up otherwise. Flaming spirits of beasts ancient and unknown joined the ghostly fire snake on the tower behind them. They unceasingly spewed fireballs. The mighty flood of shadows became a trickle.

The Silver Bullets and Farlusens loosened their postures and cheered. It must be encouraging to see hundreds of the Blighted turned to ash before reaching the walls. Hiero could understand the release of tension.

But this wasn’t the time for celebration, for there was nothing to celebrate. As Felliri had pointed out during the council, this was as if the peoples and beasts of the East descended on them. The hundreds of dying Blighted was scarcely a notch to their true number.

“Quiet down! Quiet, all of you!” Bollaghan roared to make himself heard.

Hiero looked his way, expecting to see an irate Verdant running up and down the rows of men, trying to restore order. However, Bollaghan was leaning over the battlements, peering through a telescope pointed east.

The drums and horns took a new tune. Flares shot up high in the air from behind the inner walls. They exploded in the dark sky, painting symbols in different colors. The flames of the pyres also changed hues to pass along orders.

“They’re adjusting the magnicannon?” Clement said, looking behind them. The crew changed the direction and angle of the barrel.

The other magnicannons followed suit, shifting their volleys on particular distant points. Surging forward, the cumbersome airscrew barge also fired in high arcs for further range while the griffin riders kept at the several flying Blighted wandering close.

“They’re here…” Hiero whispered. Even without the owl king’s eyes, he could see the faraway immense silhouettes against the blazing landscape. A wall of darkness was coming.

The purple fireball of a bombard collided with one of the colossal beings. The expanding flares illuminated its tower of body, an amalgamation of shadow creatures formed into an inexplicable giant of many limbs.

It staggered from the hit, its mournful bellows echoing throughout the battlefield. Dark chunks, boulders in size, fell off its body. After a slight pause, it continued its leaden amble to the walls.

The Blighted Titans were marching.