CHAPTER 30: THE DEMON’S EYE

The dry heat clung to our skin like a second layer of armor. The Split Spine spat its red dust at every step, seeping into the mouth, the nostrils, even into the folds of our cuirasses. The warriors of the vanguard ran behind me, breath short, faces set. Some wore their breastplates open to breathe more easily, revealing the sweat running along their collarbones, disappearing between their breasts or sliding into the small of their backs, tracing dark lines over the dust.

Kaelira, on my right, ran as if she didn’t feel the slope. Her yellow eyes locked on me.

— Are you sure it’s a good idea to split our troops? she asked between breaths.

I didn’t slow down.

— Yes. A small, fast force will surprise them more easily. If they have scouts, a whole army would alert them before we’re even in sight. Nyss is holding the encirclement behind. The enemy will be trapped from both sides.

The slope gave way to a narrow plateau, then to a rocky promontory overlooking the entire valley. Below, the fortress stood out like a gray scar on the red earth. We stopped. The warriors caught their breath, some kneeling, others tightening straps or wiping the sweat from their temples.

I felt warmth behind my shoulder. Sae had approached, silent. She handed me my bow, her fingers deliberately sliding over mine with studied slowness. Her chest brushed my arm, and before I could say a word, her lips touched my cheek, warm and damp.

— For luck, she murmured.

I stayed impassive, but my gut tightened with a familiar tension.

I straightened and let my gaze sweep over each of them.

— Stick to the plan. No unnecessary risks.

— YES, SORA! they answered in unison, their voices bouncing off the rocky walls.

Sae and Syra exchanged a look with me. A signal. They left the promontory, running down the opposite slope to reach their rendezvous point, where they would blend into the convoy before nightfall.

I remained alone. The dry wind barely stirred the dust around my boots. From here, no one would see where death was coming from.

Up here, the world was silent. Lower down, I could hear footsteps, whispers, metal clanging — but here, nothing. Just my breathing, the creak of leather as I drew the bow, and the beating of my heart like a funeral drum. In this emptiness, every sound had weight, every movement was a promise of death.

Night had swallowed the Split Spine, but from my eagle’s nest, the torchlight drew the weary silhouettes of the guards on the battlements. Their pace was sluggish, almost sleepwalking. Their halberds hung like dead weights at the ends of their arms.

Below, the procession approached: rattling carts loaded with barrels and sacks, nervous mules, hooded laborers. Among them, two feminine silhouettes, veils pulled low, carried sealed gourds and walked as if they didn’t exist. Nothing in their bearing betrayed their role... and yet I knew exactly what they were carrying.

I took my bow. The wood, warm under my fingers, had stored the day’s heat. The string creaked softly as I drew it. My deltoids tightened, my shoulder blades contracted until they burned.

First arrow. A guard looked up at the wrong moment. The steel pierced his eye, and he collapsed without a sound.

Second arrow. Same angle, same death.

Third.

Fourth.

Each fell as if the night itself had swallowed them. The angle was impossible for them to guess, and every impact struck the eye socket with surgical precision.

Cries rose from the battlements. Shouted orders, incomprehensible, contradictory. The alarm rumbled, a gong struck at full force. The chains of the gates began to sing, grinding, as the leaves opened in a chaos of shouts.

The carts passed, pushed by frantic hands. Sae and Syra crossed the arch in the flow of laborers, swallowed by the stone maw of the fortress. No head turned toward them.

I lowered my bow and sat back on the rock, alone, breathing slowly.

A thin smile stretched my lips.

— The diversion worked.

I sat back down, placing the bow beside me.

Dawn rose on a perfect circle. The males encircled the fortress like a frozen jaw, ranks tight, shields raised, spear points aimed at the ramparts. No one moved. No one attacked.

From my eagle’s nest, I could see the defenders hesitate to show themselves. Some peeked over the battlements, quickly pulling back as if the stone itself had struck them.

I waited.

A bolder guard leaned a bit too far. The string sang, short and sharp. The arrow pierced his eye and he toppled out of sight, his body hitting the stone with a hollow thud.

I didn’t shoot the next one right away. It was the rhythm that killed them as much as the arrow: waiting, not knowing, feeling death weigh on every second of silence.

Below, the rumors were already rising. From atop the walls, I heard the panting voices:

— It’s a demon... with a bow... We can’t see him... he never misses...

The day stretched on in this murderous slowness. My men’s ranks stayed motionless. The heat made the air ripple above their heads, but not one broke formation.

When night fell, we moved on to the second blade of our siege: the drums. Deep, slow, beating like the too-heavy heartbeats of a dying man. Hoarse chants mixed with metallic blows on shields, a noise designed to break sleep and wear down nerves.

In the firelight, a few warriors adjusted their armor straps, wiped their skin with fresh water, letting the light dance on the sweat sliding down their shoulder blades. The males watched openly, like one admires a talisman of victory.

I was no longer there. Not with them. Back in my invisible perch, I brought down another guard, then another. Always in the eye. Always without a witness to my position. When I returned to camp, the bow had vanished under a cloak, and I was just another soldier among the rest.

I changed nests every two hours. Never the same angle, never the same height. Sometimes fifty paces, sometimes far beyond, enough to make them think they faced several invisible archers.

At night, I let long silences settle, just enough for the sentries to regain confidence... then loosed a brief salvo, two arrows almost at once, striking two skulls a few heartbeats apart. The illusion of a pack of archers was complete.

At the same time, I ordered the fires to be moved and the drums to shift with them. The sounds slid around the fortress like predators circling prey. Impossible for them to locate anything.

Inside, the air rotted. Movements slowed, eyes grew dull. The leaders shouted orders no one listened to. On the walls, some staggered, others vomited over the battlements. Lips were dry, skin had taken on the waxy hue of those who haven’t slept. Between sips of water, murmurs spread about the jars, about their contents. But nothing was said aloud.

Here and there, I saw silhouettes crouched against the walls, heads in their hands, shaken by dry heaves. Others argued over an almost empty gourd, their broken voices rising into the air like an echo of panic. On one battlement, a guard dropped his weapon to clutch his stomach, doubling over before disappearing from my sight. The sickness spread as fast as the fear.

Outside, my males stood straight, disciplined. Perfect rotations, hot meals, painted faces. Their vigor contrasted with the slow agony creeping through the fortress. They even laughed at times, as if this war were nothing more than a game they were winning effortlessly.

When night fell, the drums beat an irregular rhythm: three slow blows... then silence... then a sharp crash that wrenched a start from the walls. And each time the calm returned, an arrow found an eye somewhere in the darkness.

Dawn lifted a dirty veil over the fortress.

From my post, I saw bare stretches of rampart. Whole sections were empty, as if no one dared climb them anymore. Where sentries still stood, the silhouettes trembled at the mere sharp snap of a rope being pulled to pitch a tent. The banners hung, heavy with dust and grime, barely stirring in a lazy wind.

This war was already over. Not in the stones, not yet in the blood — but in their minds. And in their sickened guts. Victory had slipped in during the night, between sips of water and bites of bread, in every stolen hour of sleep.

Behind me, my males stood straight, silent. No wasted movement. No wandering gaze. They knew too. Their hands rested on their weapons with predatory patience.

I let out a breath and spoke without raising my voice.

— Tonight... the fortress will fall.

Below, they were already preparing what was needed: grappling hooks, torches, battering rams. But no assault, not yet. The waiting was part of the punishment.

Kaelira approached. Her hip brushed mine, her fingers slid to the back of my neck. Her mouth came close, close enough for me to feel the heat of her breath.

— I... will claim my reward when the gates break.

Her fingers trailed down the back of my neck to brush my chest, drawing a burning line through the leather. She leaned enough for her breasts to press against my arm and for her lips to almost touch mine.

— And I want it to be... unforgettable, she whispered, her eyes devouring mine before stepping back with a smile that promised everything.

Then she withdrew, leaving me with the scent of her sweat and that promise mingling with the promise of the walls’ fall.