From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 64: Fortress of Blades

Chapter 64: Fortress of Blades

Snow fell.

Thin, whispering flakes that melted on armour but clung to rooftops, railings, and the old banners of the Accord that hung from the tower archways. By morning, the fortress stood rimmed in white, a strange contrast to the red glow of the siege fires below.

Leon stood in the courtyard as the night shift of cadets rotated out. He didn’t speak, didn’t issue commands. Just watched. The snow muffled everything—boots, breath, thoughts.

Inside, Kellen spread new parchments across the war table. More envoys had sent word. The Azure Commons hadn’t pledged, but they hadn’t declined either. The Bastion of Nine kept silent. The Pale Choir sent only one word. Watching.

"They’re testing us," Kellen muttered.

"They’re waiting to see if we survive the first crack," Marien replied.

Leon entered just as Vastian stepped away from the vault.

"We’ve had movement," the older knight said. "On the western rise. Two banners. No house colours. Likely mercenary guilds."

Eliane returned from the southern watch, brushing frost from her cloak. "They’re positioning. Siege weapons coming up by mule and sled. They won’t wait much longer."

Leon nodded once. "Then we don’t either."

He turned to the sealed vault.

The runes flared once at his touch. Kellen stepped aside.

Leon placed both hands on the ancient handle.

The chamber hissed open.

Inside, the second blade waited.

It didn’t glow like the first—not with truth, not with memory. It pulsed. As though aware. As though waiting.

He took it in silence.

Outside, word spread fast. Cadets who had only seen the hilt whispered prayers without knowing why. Officers straightened. Even Marien paused as Leon passed.

By midday, the first stone crashed against the outer wall. Not a breach—a warning.

Leon climbed the parapets.

He raised the second blade.

And light answered it.

Not from the sword.

From the watchtowers.

One by one, flame-torches along the inner wall shifted hue—from red to gold. A signal not used since the Accord War.

Kellen exhaled. "That’s it."

Eliane whispered, "The blades are both unsheathed."

Marien stepped forward. "And the fortress no longer hides."

Leon looked down at the firelines.

Three figures stepped forward from the enemy ranks.

One carried a white flag.

Another held a box.

The last raised a scroll.

Kellen muttered, "Terms."

Leon said nothing.

He descended the steps and walked to the gate. Alone.

When it opened, he met the envoy just beyond the fireline.

The man with the box opened it. Inside was a circlet. Council-forged. Meant to bind.

The scroll offered surrender.

The flag offered amnesty—if Leon submitted.

Leon looked at the items.

Then he raised the second blade.

And cut the flag in two.

The snow swallowed the gasps.

The envoy didn’t speak.

Leon turned and walked back to the fortress.

When the gates shut, the horns sounded.

This time, not warning.

Declaration.

The sound of the horns rippled through the stone corridors like blood through a reopened wound—urgent, pulsing, undeniable. Every bell tower within the fortress echoed the cry, until the sky itself felt steeped in its tone.

Inside the barracks, cadets leapt to their feet. Armour snapped into place. Leather belts tightened. No one needed to be told what it meant.

War had begun.

Leon reached the upper rampart before the first volley landed. A flaming shot, crude but heavy, slammed into the southern tower shield wall, splintering stone but not breaching. Sparks sprayed down the snow like ash on parchment. Marien was already issuing orders before the tremors faded.

"Rotate positions. Keep shields up until the third volley. Then we counter."

From the parapet, Leon watched the enemy lines shift. Their front wave moved with the precision of men paid to bleed. Mercenaries. Guild-marked and faceless, advancing with tower shields and rams.

Eliane joined him, breath visible. "They’re testing for weaknesses."

Leon shook his head. "They’re buying time. The Council’s hoping we fold without needing to storm us."

"Then we make the cost visible."

Leon nodded once, then gave a single, sharp signal.

A line of archers rose behind the stoneworks. No drums, no war cries—only precision. The moment Leon raised the second blade, twenty bowstrings flexed.

The archers released.

The snow-blank sky darkened momentarily with flight.

The first rank of attackers fell like wheat before scythe.

Below, a horn blared in answer—raw, angry, desperate.

The second wave charged.

This time, the fortress responded not just with arrows, but fire.

From the side vents of the old smithing towers, Marien’s engineers unleashed two flasks of sealed alchemical flame. They hit just beyond the ridge—detonating with a hiss that swallowed breath. Snow melted instantly. Screams followed.

Kellen appeared beside Leon, face flushed. "Two more Orders just sent hawks. One has pledged neutrality. The other..." He held up a marked scroll.

Leon took it, eyes scanning fast. His fingers tightened.

"The Iron Hand?" Eliane asked.

"They’re coming," Leon confirmed. "One division. Not enough to win—but enough to tear through the Council’s supply lines."

"Then they’ve done the math," Kellen said. "They’re betting we survive."

"No," Leon murmured. "They’re betting we win."

Another crash sounded, closer this time. The outer ward had been breached—not completely, but cracked. Marien cursed under her breath and called for the fallback barricades to be raised.

Leon moved with purpose now, descending the inner halls. Past soldiers, past messengers, past fear. Every step drew him toward the inner sanctum.

Toward the Hall of Accord.

He entered alone.

Stone lanterns flickered along the chamber’s edge, casting long shadows over the etched vows on the walls—oaths carved in three tongues, sealed with blood and pact.

Leon stepped into the centre and placed the second blade upon the altar stone.

He knelt.

Not in submission.

But in memory.

"I was not born to lead," he whispered. "But I was born to remember. And what they forgot, I now reclaim."

The blade pulsed once.

From the chamber walls, a low hum answered.

The ancient accord was no longer dormant.

Leon stood.

And as he lifted the blade again, the very walls seemed to steady around him—stone remembering its purpose.

When he emerged, the wind had picked up.

Snow still fell.

But now, it melted before it touched him.

He returned to the ramparts just as the enemy unleashed their third volley—this one heavier, faster, and aimed directly at the barracks wall. The stone cracked but held. Marien’s signal flares burst in the air, ordering the cadets to new fallback lines.

Leon’s voice rang clear across the courtyard. "Draw your blade. Lock the gates. Every soul inside this fortress now answers to the blade and the truth it bears."

The cadets responded—not with cheers, but with discipline. In that moment, they weren’t just soldiers. They were history holding its breath.

Another rumble echoed beneath the stone. Not from the siege.

From the vault.

The first blade pulsed.

A call answered by the second.

Together, the twin lights flared across the stone—cutting through snow and fire, seen from the ridges, from the watchlines, from the distant camps of allies who had yet to march.

And from across the hills, where the horizon rose in broken ash—smoke of a different kind climbed.

Not siege fires.

Banners.

The first allies had arrived.

And the Fortress of Blades no longer stood alone.

The riders who came through the smoke did not march with drums or ceremony. They moved like a second front of the storm—cloaked in steel and furs, faces marked with the sigils of fractured Orders and exiled lines. Broken once, but not bowed.

At their head rode a woman wearing no crest, but whose sword bore the unmistakable shape of a highland oathblade—Darian Vale, once commander of the Hollow Guard’s eastern cell.

Leon met her at the outer gate.

She dismounted without words and offered her hand.

"We heard the flames," she said. "And saw the truth lit behind them."

Leon gripped her forearm. "Then you came to see it through?"

"We came to finish what was started. And stand where the Council forgot to look."

Behind her, over eighty riders followed—scouts, veteran blades, healers. A vanguard too small to break a siege, but large enough to turn hesitation into fear.

Marien oversaw their placement, folding them into the outer rings where the next breach was expected.

Kellen turned from the wall, watching as the enemy began to hesitate, red banners dipping lower than before.

"They weren’t expecting reinforcement," he muttered.

Eliane smirked. "Good. Let them wonder what else is coming."

Leon stood at the battlements again.

The sky still snowed. The fires still burned. But now—now the storm had found its answer.

And from the north, new horns began to rise.

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