On the West Wall, the last defenders finally understood.
What it meant to be trapped.
Below them—their domain—burned.
The West Camp had become a furnace. Fire climbed into the sky, devouring everything it touched. The screams of the slaves—no, not slaves anymore—rose like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls, against their minds.
It was everywhere.
There was no escape.
"Th-the camp… it's gone…!" a young guard stammered, pointing downward with shaking hands. His eyes were blown wide, swallowed by terror.
He saw it.
The ones who used to kneel—
now killing.
A Wolf-folk he had once kicked aside now stood over a foreman, hammer rising and falling until nothing remained but pulp.
"It's a riot! They've all gone mad! Run—!"
A veteran dropped his spear and turned—
Only to freeze.
The stairway down was gone.
Blocked.
A flood of bodies surged upward from below, weapons in hand, eyes burning.
No way down.
No way out.
Darkness outside the wall.
Death inside it.
Their morale shattered.
They ran like trapped rats along the narrow ramparts, colliding, screaming, clawing for escape that did not exist.
And in that moment—
when every eye turned inward—
the chance appeared.
In the shadows of the Deadwood Forest—
Hask saw it.
The burning tower.
The broken formation.
The chaos.
His lips peeled back.
This was it.
The moment carved by Colin's will.
His blade rose.
His roar split the night.
"WOLF FANG—!!!"
A breath.
"CHARGE!!!"
They moved.
Thirty riders.
No cries.
No hesitation.
Only speed.
They burst from the forest like black lightning, tearing across the broken ground with terrifying force. Hooves struck earth like thunder rolling across the land.
No formation needed.
No words required.
Only one purpose.
Kill.
The distance vanished.
The wall rushed toward them.
That cracked section—
marked.
Chosen.
Destined.
"Dismount! Siege!"
Hask leapt first.
A falling stone.
A weapon made flesh.
He hit the ground running.
Behind him—
thirty warriors moved as one.
Horses abandoned.
Speed traded for impact.
They became something else.
Not cavalry.
Not soldiers.
A battering force.
A sacrifice sharpened into a blade.
The ram struck.
"Boom!"
Again.
"Boom!"
Again.
"BOOM!"
Wood screamed.
Cracks widened.
Dust fell.
Each impact was a heartbeat closer to collapse.
Nearby, ladders rose.
Light. Fast. Precise.
Under cover of Anna's archers, they slammed into place.
The climb began.
Blades clenched between teeth.
Hands and feet moving in desperate rhythm.
Arrows fell.
Wild.
Panicked.
One struck—
a shoulder pierced.
No one slowed.
Pain meant nothing.
Above them—
the wall.
Victory.
Hask didn't wait.
No ladder.
No cover.
He drove his blade into the earth—
and climbed.
Bare hands.
Claws.
Strength alone.
Up.
Up—
And over.
"DIE!"
He landed like a storm.
Steel flashed.
Two men—
cut in half before they understood.
Blood sprayed.
Hot.
Thick.
Real.
"For Blackwood Fortress!"
"For the leader—!!!"
He stood there—
a wall of flesh and steel—
holding ground soaked in blood.
Behind him—
more followed.
The Wolf Fang Warriors poured over the edge, meeting broken defenders in close combat.
It wasn't a battle.
It was execution.
The defenders—
already hollowed out by fear—
couldn't stand.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't fight.
They died.
Quickly.
Brutally.
Completely.
Then—
it broke.
A sound—
louder than all before.
"CRACK—!!!"
The wall gave way.
The ram had done its work.
The weakened section collapsed inward, exploding into splinters and dust, opening a jagged, gaping wound.
Logs crashed down.
Bodies were crushed beneath them—friend and foe alike.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Through the smoke—
the truth revealed itself.
Fire.
Chaos.
Slaughter.
The West Camp—
already lost.
The inside and outside—
now one.
Hask stepped forward.
Blood covered him.
Not all of it his.
He took the flag.
Drove it down.
Hard.
Into shattered wood.
Into flesh.
Into victory.
It rose—
snapping in the wind.
A wolf's head, painted in blood, staring out over the burning camp.
Alive.
Hungry.
Triumphant.
The spark had become a wildfire.
And the gates of hell—
were no longer closed.