The Council of Dawn

Twenty minutes after the scouts were sighted at the gatehouse, the square behind the eastern wall had been cleared for council. The sky above remained a bruised violet hue, the dawn threatening but not yet arriving. Grashok stood at the head of the group, framed by flickering torchlight, with Soulrend resting against his hip. Its low hum murmured in his bones, more alert than usual—as if it too had sensed the coming wave.

At last, Snippa appeared, still dusted from the road, boots scuffed and tunic stained with the clay of the hills. Her long brown hair was bound into two braids that trailed down her back, half unravelled from the wind and travel. Despite the grime, her posture was sharp, the bow slung across her back an extension of her spine. She moved past Skarn, brushing her hand through his thick fur—the wolf curled near the wagon shadows, arching his back at her touch, his tail giving a single thump against the stone before settling again. As she passed, her eyes lifted to Grashok, lingering on him for a heartbeat—tired but warm, a look that carried both relief and quiet affection after her time away.

Elenara stood close by, her earlier mirth vanished, face taut with focus. Sylrith leaned against the edge of a wagon shaft, arms crossed, her sharp leather silhouette slicing cleanly through the dimness. Nyxie perched on a crate, one leg swinging absent‑mindedly as her bright eyes flicked between those assembled. Mayor Vos puffed slightly, his cloak straining against his broadening belly, while Liraen lingered near a broken fountain, twisting a dagger idly in one hand.

Grashok looked across them all, then let his gaze settle gently on Snippa. His voice softened, carrying more warmth than command.

“Snippa… tell me what you’ve seen.”

She took a breath, stepped forward, and began.

“They’re coming,” she said simply. “Too many to count without losing track—but my scouts estimate in the thousands. They move slow, deliberate. The dust cloud they kick is thick enough to blot the stars.” She glanced around. “The Vermin King’s war‑standard flies high above the centre column. He leads them directly.”

She paused, her gaze sharpening. “We slowed them. Not by much, but it’ll count. At Blackroot Ford, we brought the bridge down just after their vanguard crossed. Timing was close—risky—but the rear column lost half a day finding a new way across. They’re still regrouping from that bottleneck. We peppered the flank with arrows, set fire to one of their powder wagons, and pulled out before the Brutes closed in. They didn’t like that.”

She smiled grimly. “Lost two scouts in the retreat, but the Ratkin didn’t get the bodies. That matters.”

Grashok gave a satisfied grunt. “Well done.”

Snippa inclined her head, but her eyes remained hard. “It won’t stop them. Only staggered their timing. Bought us a few hours, at most.”

Grashok nodded grimly. “What’s he bringing?”

She pointed southward, toward the forested path her scouts had used. “The Ratkin Sappers are active. We found a fresh breach in the valley, freshly opened. They’re already working the passage—clawing deeper and stacking alchemy charges. Our walls won’t hold if they finish their tunnels.”

Sylrith’s lips curled. “Underminers. Vermin with claws and powder. They’ll try to break through where our foundation thins.”

Snippa nodded. “But they’re not alone. For their main attack they are bringing everything against the walls. They’re arrayed in layers. The forward edge is mostly basic Ratkin, Scuttlers and Gnawthralls—filthy, screeching, standard fodder. Behind them, heavier units are embedded.”

“We saw Brutes among them,” she continued. “Same as Blackwater, only nastier now—some of those big bastards have traded bone axes for steel. One of my scouts caught them smashing through a group of giant ants near the valley’s edge. The ants fought in disciplined waves, but the Brutes tore straight through, crushing everything in their path. They’ll be at the front, no doubt.”

Grashok growled softly and nodded. “Ok. What else?”

“Ratkin Juggernauts,” Snippa said. “Towering colossi, twisted by necrosorcery, clad in fused armour and wielding colossal improvised weapons. Slow, but look nearly unstoppable.”

Nyxie’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen them before. At the Ratkin ritual by the watchtower, one nearly broke our line. I had to concentrate our archers with my magic, binding their volleys together, to bring it down. That’s the only way—focus everything at once. Scatter fire won’t touch them.”

Mayor Vos swallowed nervously. “And if we can’t?”

Nyxie ignored him. “Any sign of magic?”

Snippa nodded. “Yeah. Necro‑sorcerers. Same gaunt Ratkin bastards as before, hiding behind the fodder. They’re not just mumbling curses now—my scouts saw them lobbing necrotic fireballs. Green flames, stinking like rot, blowing apart bodies and spraying vermin everywhere. They’ll hammer us with that before the Brutes and Scuttlers hit.”

Sylrith spat. “Filthy sorcerers. Drop them fast or their fire will rip us open.”

Snippa continued, her voice growing sombre. “Then there’s... The Carrion Choir.”

Liraen perked up at the name. “That sounds fun.”

“It isn’t,” Snippa said darkly. “Three crones, eyes blindfolded and sewn shut, but their mouths...” She shuddered. “They chant. Harmonics that don’t make sense. They caused half a Ratkin squad to bleed from the ears and start clawing at each other.”

Grashok’s brow furrowed. “That kind of chaos before a charge will tear gaps in any line. If they’re allowed to keep chanting, our defence will unravel. Elenara warned me of them, and we’ve prepared what we can — it won’t stop them entirely, but it should blunt their reach.”

Snippa exhaled slowly as she considered his words. “Even so, they’re protected—layers of infantry around them. But they’re fragile. Vulnerable.”

“Unfortunately, there’s more,” Snippa continued, her voice tightening. “another thing we haven’t seen before. They call them Swarm Swellers. Massive Ratkin, bloated beyond recognition, their bodies distended, seemingly with foul slurry. One of them erupted mid‑march, the blast tearing through the treeline like a siege engine, shredding trunks and hurling splinters like spears. From the wreckage poured a living tide of rats, swarming so thick they stripped bark and leaves in moments. None of us had ever faced anything like it before.”

Mayor Vos paled. “They’re using... themselves? As weapons?”

“Yes,” Snippa confirmed grimly. “And if they reach our walls, the damage will be catastrophic.”

Grashok’s fists clenched. “And the King?”

“He’s coming,” Snippa answered. “His banner marks the centre. He travels with a cadre of pale guards—the Pallid Claws.”

Elenara tensed. “The albinos.”

“Yes,” Snippa said. “Bone‑laced armour. Twin enchanted sickles. Silent. They move like dancers. One sliced through an adventurers party without a sound.”

Grashok’s knuckles rested on Soulrend’s hilt.

Sylrith’s eyes narrowed. “They’re the King’s guard. Fast, precise, trained to cut down anyone who gets close. Either they’ll shield him directly or strike at our leaders to break command. One way or another, we’ll have to deal with them.”

“The King may not enter the fray early,” Snippa noted. “But if he does, he’ll be guarded like a god.”

The group fell quiet.

Grashok looked across them—the ranger, the gladiator, the hedge‑witch, the spymaster, the rogue, and the Mayor.

Grashok’s voice cut through the hush like iron striking stone. “We hold until sunset. That’s all. But hear me—sunset is enough. If we stand together, if we refuse to break, then this town still breathes when the night comes.”

He paced once across the dirt, shoulders squared. “We’ve planned for their tricks, their fire, their rot. We know their claws, their tunnels, their chants. Every move they make, we’ve counted. What matters now is us. We hold the line, we bend when we must, and we strike when we can. No faltering. No despair. This wall, this town, these people—they stay free because we refuse to give them up.”

Snippa nodded sharply, Nyxie gave a quiet hum of approval, Sylrith offered a curt incline of the head. Mayor Vos looked mildly green, but managed a trembling thumbs‑up.

Liraen tilted her head and smirked. “Gods, you’re so hot when you’re inspirational,” she murmured, low enough that most missed it—but not Grashok.

He blinked once. Others turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“I mean, it’s giving main quest chain hero energy,” she added with a wink. “Peak protagonist vibes.”

He grudgingly allowed a small grin before continuing: “Mayor Vos—you must remain close to either myself or Sylrith. The only way to manage the adventurers during the battle is through quests. You’re the quest‑giver; we need you within reach when they need direction.”

Vos blinked twice, baffled. “Me? Well, yes, I suppose. But…” His eyes flicked to Elenara. “I assumed Elenara could do that sort of thing?”

Elenara’s face folded into confusion. “I’ve never—what do you mean?”

Vos approached her gingerly, leaning in to whisper something barely audible. She leaned back, arching one brow with a mix of amusement and wariness.

Grashok watched the exchange, then asked plainly, “Can you create quests?”

Elenara tapped a finger to her chin. “Let’s find out.”

She tilted her head, flashing a playful glance toward Liraen, then up at Grashok himself.

A soft glow lit the air above her—brilliant, unmistakable. A glowing golden exclamation mark hovered above her head, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.

Nyxie audibly gasped. “I will never get used to that.”

Liraen broke into a grin and strutted over to Elenara. There was a moment—an interaction invisible to the rest. A silent flicker of something exchanged between the rogue and the spymaster. Then Liraen turned on her heel, sauntered back over, and without warning, looped the sharp heel of her boot around Grashok’s calf.

She pulled him forward and delivered a kiss fierce enough to silence a battlefield.

When she finally stepped back, Grashok blinked once, clearing the stunned haze. The others stared, wearing expressions that ranged from baffled amusement to mild awe.

Elenara’s grin had sharpened into a wicked curve.

“So that was your quest?” Grashok asked.

Liraen and Elenara nodded simultaneously.

Grashok chuckled, dark and pleased. “Right. You’re with me then,” he said to Elenara. “Vos, you’re with Sylrith.”

The mayor swallowed visibly, glancing toward Sylrith, but managed to agree.

Grashok looked over the group once more. “Is there anything we missed?”

They fell silent. Each retreating briefly into their own calculations. Map pieces, battle formations, spell coverage, fallback positions. Minutes passed, stretching beneath the stars.

Then, slowly—one by one—they shook their heads.

Grashok nodded. “Good. You know what to do. Now go out and do it.”

With that, the group dispersed, boots crunching across stone and soil, each peeling away to find their place among the defenders. The air felt colder, taut with waiting.

And as the horizon cracked with the first kiss of sunlight—just a thread of gold behind the hills—Grashok stood still, letting it wash over him like a promise.

They were ready. Let the vermin come.