The Princess' Harem
Chapter 118: The Elysia’s Battle (3)

Chapter 118: The Elysia’s Battle (3)

The third day brought a chilling silence. Not the silence of peace, but the heavy, suffocating quiet that precedes the storm.

Arin’s legions had withdrawn slightly, pulling back from the immediate assault. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, blood, and the unspoken dread of what was to come.

It was a calculated pause, a cruel mockery of rest for the defenders of Elysia.

Viana used the lull to move tirelessly among the battlements. Her armor, once pristine, was now scuffed and stained.

Her face was grim, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, yet she moved with an unwavering purpose. She spoke to the weary soldiers, her voice hoarse but steady, offering words of encouragement, sharing what little hardtack and watered wine was available.

She saw the despair in their eyes, the slumped shoulders, but also the flicker of loyalty and a desperate will to protect their homes.

"How are our numbers, Reyes?" Viana asked, finding her Captain of the Guard near a scarred section of the eastern wall. He looked like a ghost, his face pale, his movements stiff from days of continuous fighting.

Reyes leaned against the stone, his breath rasping. "Princess, we have lost nearly a thousand. Another two thousand are wounded, many severely. We have perhaps four thousand able-bodied fighters left, counting the mercenaries. But they are all exhausted. We are stretched thin, holding points with skeleton crews."

His voice was a flat monotone, devoid of his usual stoic strength.

Viana’s heart twisted. Four thousand. Against Arin’s still overwhelming twenty thousand.

"And the supplies, Arden?" she asked, turning to her financial advisor, who had joined them on the wall. Arden’s neat ledgers were gone, replaced by a grim tally kept on a small, worn slate. His face was gaunt and his eyes hollow.

"Princess, our potable water is critically low. Our food rations will last perhaps two more days at the current rate, even with strict rationing for the refugees," Arden stated, his voice tight with desperation. "Medical supplies are almost exhausted. We have bandages, but little else. Marion’s Fire Flower essence... she has perhaps enough for a dozen more potent fire pots. The paralyzing agent is gone."

He swallowed hard. "We are running out of everything."

A bitter wind swept across the battlements, carrying with it the distant sight of Arin’s camp. No noble houses had sent aid. No rides had come from Valendale.

Elysia was truly alone, a small defiant flame flickering against a suffocating darkness.

Inside the sprawling infirmary, the Queen moved among the wounded, her resolve unbreakable, even as her thin body trembled with exhaustion. The moans of the injured filled the air, a constant reminder of the horrific toll of the siege.

She tore strips of her own fine linens for bandages, boiled water over roaring fires, and personally tended to the most grievous wounds. Her voice, once soft and melodious, was now raspy, but her touch remained gentle, a source of solace for the suffering.

The King, though weary, walked the city, speaking to the populace, his presence a symbol of defiance. He organized buckets of water, distributed what little food could be spared from the military stores, and encouraged the civilians to aid in the defense where they could, carrying stones for repairs, moving supplies, or simply maintaining hope.

He knew the odds, but he would not let his people see him falter.

Viana’s mind returned to the ’system’ and its strange behavior. Now it was nowhere to be seen, making it felt like a cruel joke now, it didn’t give her a solution in this dire situation.

It was easy to speak of his men of the harem’s love percentages when the enemy wasn’t at your gates, when your people weren’t starving and bleeding.

She pushed the thoughts away. They were a distraction. The only numbers that mattered now were four thousand against twenty thousand.

A new movement caught Viana’s eye across the ravaged plains. From the center of Arin’s vast encampment, a figure emerged, mounted on a dark warhorse.

It was Arin himself, unmistakable even at this distance, his armor glinting with a cold, malevolent purpose. But he was not alone.

Flanking him, shrouded figures moved, their forms seeming to absorb the light. They were the leaders of the Shadow Clan, feared for their stealth and brutal efficiency, their faces obscured by deep hoods.

Their presence was a stark declaration. Arin had powerful, shadowy allies, and he was here to deliver the final blow himself.

A collective shiver ran through the defenders on the walls. The visible alliance between Arin and the infamous Shadow Clan only solidified the despair.

It wasn’t just a war of kingdoms, it was something darker, more insidious.

As dusk approached, the oppressive silence broke. A single, thunderous roar echoed across the plains, followed by a chorus of thousands of battle cries.

Arin was coming again. And this time, it felt different. There was a finality in the roar, a certainty of triumph.

"They’re deploying the heavy rams!" a lookout screamed, his voice cracking with fear. "And... more siege towers! It’s their final push!"

Viana rushed to the main gate’s lookout, her heart pounding. Through the gloom, she saw them.

Not just rams, but massive, iron-plated beasts of wood and steel, each one a battering ram of colossal proportions, drive by hundreds of men. And behind them, a new wave of siege towers, even larger than the first, their top platforms teeming with elite, heavily armored shock troops.

"This is it," Reyes muttered beside her, his hand on his sword. His voice was grim and resolute.

Joel, his face a mask of exhaustion, ordered every remaining man to the walls. "Stand fast! Hold the line! For Elysia!"

The battle began anew, a crescendo of violence that eclipsed anything from the previous days. The iron rams slammed against the main gates with terrifying force, the wood groaning, splintering, threatening to give way.

The walls vibrated violently with each impact, dust and small stones raining down onto the defenders.

Arin’s archers unleashed a ceaseless volley of flaming arrows, turning sections of the battlements into infernos. Elysian archers, their quivers nearly empty, fired back with grim determination, but their arrows were too few to stem the tide.

As her last potent Fire Flower pots deployed, Marion watched with despair as the last of her precious alchemical fire raged. She had nothing left.

Arden stood beside her, his slate abandoned, his face pale with the realization of their inevitable defeat. The numbers were absolute.

Viana stood on the main battlements, a stark figure against the burning sky. She drew her own bow, shooting arrows to the enemy soldiers below.

Around her, her remaining soldiers fought with a desperate, animal ferocity. They were exhausted, broken, but they refused to yield.

They were fighting for every memory, every dream, every sun-drenched field they had saved from the blight.

The main gate creaked ominously. A splintering crash echoed through the capital, a sound that brought a collective gasp of horror from within.

The gate was holding, but barely. It would not last much longer.

Viana knew it. She looked out at the endless, menacing army of Arin, then back at the exhausted, bleeding faces of her people.

They had fought with everything they had. They had given all. This was the breaking point. The moment before everything fell apart.

Her eyes scanned the horizon, a desperate, unspoken prayer on her lips for a miracle that would not come.