He pulls me back a step as the Ashlords return fire. People are streaming up to the higher sections of the wall. There’s a fire in the stairwell that’s connected to the entrance Bastian’s rigged explosions caved in. Everything’s hazy and chaotic. Bastian shouts orders. I barely hear him. Some deep part of me is horrified. This is battle. This is war. The Ashlords have ruled my people unfairly, but is this how we win our freedom? In blood and smoke?

Everything that follows is a nightmare. Like most dreams, I’m not completely in control of my body. The Ashlords finally break through the main entrance, forcing Bastian’s men to retreat up a set of flanking stairwells, working hard to hold the higher ground. In the chaos, I search for Luca, hoping he’s survived the first part of the battle.

Below, Ashlords keep pushing through the smoke and shoving ladders up against the sides of Gig’s Wall. Every attempt is a threat to break our control of the upper ramparts. Bastian’s men call out the threats and we rush the climbing soldiers, shoving them back as new Ashlord soldiers appear to take their place.

Their troops are gaining ground on the stairwells, and even as we make our stand, death’s grasp feels closer than ever. One of Bastian’s men collapses by the nearest staircase, blood spurting out. An Ashlord rushes up through the gap, body flexed in righteous anger, only to be shot in the stomach. He takes a slack-armed swing at the nearest Dividian before collapsing.

Bastian’s voice starts to sound like music compared to the constant ring of gunfire. The mountains look beautiful against the smoking ruin being made around us. Bastian keeps shouting the same thing. “Hold them! Help is coming!”

If help really is coming, it feels like it’s too late. Someone misses a ladder on the far side of the ramparts. Ashlords are swarming up that side now. They’re pressing up the two staircases, too, lashing out with swords. Our group pinches tight, backs pressed together. Everyone is bleeding and every chest is heaving. This feels like the end.

Trumpets.

Every eye swings to the valley as a stream of mounted men thunder toward us. Bastian screams his triumph, tells his boys to take heart, as the world quakes. Every Ashlord rallies, trying to take up their formations, but in their desperation to scale the ramparts, they’ve become too scattered. A wind-whipped flag leads our liberators into battle.

The Reach. Longhand soldiers. Hundreds of them.