Late the next night, urgent horn blasts rang out from the southern wall.
Screams and firelight followed.
Viscount Webster had never gone to bed. He immediately threw on his armor and rushed out of his tent, his face grim.
That section was garrisoned by a minor noble's knight corps, few in number and poorly equipped. He had thought they could hold for a few days, but trouble had come far sooner than he expected.
By the time he arrived with his men, the entire stretch of wall had become a slaughterhouse.
Blood flowed down the stone steps, and shattered armor lay tangled with severed limbs.
Bodies hung upside down from the battlements, their eyes still open, terror frozen on their faces.
Not a single survivor remained.
"Kill!" Webster roared, charging in with his blade.
His heavy war blade struck with savage force, cutting down several Snow Oath warriors who closed around him in a single blow. His Battle Aura burned like flame.
The knights followed close behind, fighting desperately, and only then did they begin to wrest the wall back, inch by inch, amid the chaos.
As dawn approached, the last fires still burned, and the air reeked of char and blood.
Webster leaned against a ruined battlement, his armor spattered with blood. A gash split his temple, and blood dripped from his jaw.
His eyes remained fixed ahead, his chest heaving.
It was only the second day, and holding the city was already this hard. What would they do next?
The sky had barely begun to brighten when word spread through the city.
"The southern garrison was wiped out."
"The Snow Oath have already broken in."
"They say that minor noble fled the battle and had already gone over to the enemy..."
Rumors ran rampant. Fear gripped the streets