The outer postern shrieked, a sound of splintering timber and groaning iron, vibrating up through the great hall’s granite floor. Zbyhneva didn’t wait. “Bar the main gate! Leslav, help with the inner bars!” she commanded, already moving, her voice a whip-crack that cut through the cacophony. She raced towards the main entry, a colossal portal of layered oak and iron that had stood against centuries of Horyan blizzards and lesser sieges. Heavy iron bolts, thick as her forearm, were already in place, but a secondary set of sliding bars needed to be secured, wedging into reinforced grooves along the frame. Leslav, still in his human form, hastened forward, his face pale but set. He grunted, straining against a thick oaken beam, his hands struggling to find purchase on the slick, cold wood. His strength, clearly, was not what it had been. Zbyhneva spared him a glance, then shifted her attention to the battlements. “Stryh! Watch for breaches, report any sign on the flanks!” The small, stony raptor, perched now on the shoulder of a broken statue, let out a sharp, chittering cry, already scanning the swirling snow beyond the slit windows. The rhythmic impacts intensified, each blow against the outer postern a shuddering shockwave. Borislav’s men were using a ram. She scanned the hall, assessing its vulnerabilities. The main gate was the primary target, but the fortress had numerous smaller, often forgotten passages. “They’ll test the main gate, then look for a softer point,” she muttered, more to herself than Leslav. “The northern wall has a collapsed watchtower. It leads to a choked-off supply tunnel. They might try to clear it.” “The supply tunnel?” Leslav rasped, finally securing one of the oaken beams. Sweat beaded on his brow, though the hall was still cold enough to steal breath. “It’s been sealed for generations. Collapsed stone, impassable.” “Borislav knows this place,” Zbyhneva countered, her gaze sharpening. “He served with your father, didn’t he? He’d remember the old plans, the weaknesses. He wouldn’t waste a ram on the main gate unless it was a feint. He’s trying to draw our attention.” She grabbed a heavy, scarred longbow from a nearby weapon rack, its string still taut, arrows fletched with dark raven feathers. “Keep the main gate secure. I’m taking the northern ramparts.” “Alone? It’s suicide!” Leslav protested, his voice laced with an unfamiliar fear. “I’m a knight. This is what I do,” she stated, her hand already on the cold, iron ladder leading to the upper levels. Her armor, though battered, felt like a second skin. She ascended quickly, the heavy leather and metal not hindering her practiced pace. From a snow-choked embrasure overlooking the northern exterior, Zbyhneva saw them. Not a full frontal assault, but a small contingent of Borislav’s infantry, cloaked in mottled grey and white, already hacking at a snowdrift that concealed a crumbling section of the curtain wall. They cleared debris with practiced efficiency, revealing a tight aperture into the rock. She drew an arrow, the seasoned wood whispering as it slid into place. Her breath plumed white in the frigid air. The first arrow flew, a silent, deadly arc, finding the throat of the lead sapper. He crumpled without a sound. The others scattered, looking for the source. Zbyhneva moved, firing three more arrows in swift succession, each finding its mark, felling a man or pinning them to the ice-slicked rock. A guttural roar echoed from below, a sound of frustrated rage. It was Borislav. He had anticipated her, or perhaps, simply knew the citadel’s layout too well. More skirmishers swarmed the breach, shields raised. Zbyhneva continued her deadly work, her mind a cold, calculating machine, conserving arrows, aiming for vulnerable points in their crude armor. She bought them time. She always had. But time was a finite resource, and Borislav had numbers. A crossbow bolt, thicker than her thumb, suddenly sheared past her ear, chipping stone from the embrasure’s edge. Another followed, striking her pauldron with a dull thud. They had found her position. “Move!” she commanded herself, dropping back from the embrasure, reloading as she went. She could hear the distinct clink of climbing hooks below, echoing up the sheer face of the spire. They were scaling the wall, bypassing the breach. A secondary assault. Borislav was cunning. Zbyhneva raced along the crumbling inner walkway, her boots crunching on icy scree. She reached a winding flight of steps that led to a lower level, hoping to intercept them before they gained a foothold inside. As she descended, the air grew colder, heavy with the scent of damp stone and stale iron. The staircase opened into a small, forgotten guardroom, a single slit window looking out onto a sheer drop. Just as she reached the bottom step, a shadow detached itself from the gloom. A heavy axe swung in a low arc, aimed for her midsection. Zbyhneva reacted instantly, deflecting the blow with her forearm guard, the metal singing with the impact. The assailant, a burly brute with a scarred face, grunted and pressed his attack. He was faster than he looked. Her blade, *Ironheart*, scraped free of its scabbard, familiar in her hand. She parried, riposted, her footwork fluid and precise. The veteran was skilled, too, but his fury was unrefined. She found an opening, a flicker of exposed neck as he overswung, and thrust. A gurgle caught in his throat, and he fell, a heavy thud against the icy flagstones. But he wasn't alone. As his body hit the ground, another warrior burst through a side passage, his heavy warhammer arcing down. Zbyhneva twisted, but not fast enough. The hammer grazed her side, a glancing blow that still felt like a punch from a furious steed. She stumbled, a searing pain blooming across her ribs. The next strike, a brutal, upward swing, caught her across the thigh. The force of the blow ripped a cry from her lips. Her leg gave way, sending her sprawling, *Ironheart* clattering from her numb fingers. A crimson stain bloomed rapidly across the dark fabric of her trousers, spreading outward from the wound. The pain was immediate, blinding. She tried to push herself up, but her leg refused to bear her weight. The second man, seeing his advantage, raised his hammer for the killing blow. A guttural snarl, deeper and more primal than any she’d ever heard, ripped through the air, vibrating through the very masonry of the fortress. The air in the low guardroom grew suddenly cold, charged with an unnatural chill. The man with the hammer paused, his gaze darting towards the corridor. From the shadows, a towering form burst forth. Not human, but beast. Horns like gnarled branches, fur the color of midnight storm clouds, and eyes that glowed with an infernal, hungry light. Leslav. The curse had taken him. He was larger, more terrifying than she remembered, advancing with a blur of terrifying speed and raw power. The beast didn't hesitate, didn't even glance at Zbyhneva. It moved with a single, horrifying purpose. Its claws, long and obsidian, tore through the man with the warhammer, ripping his chest open with sickening ease. The man screamed, a brief, wet sound, before he was flung against the far wall, a broken, lifeless heap. More raiders, drawn by the commotion, flooded into the guardroom. They froze, weapons raised, staring at the monstrous entity that had appeared from the gloom. The beast ignored them. It turned its glowing eyes towards Zbyhneva, who lay bleeding on the floor, her vision blurring at the edges. Then, in a move that defied all expectation, the beast lowered itself, shielding her body with its own immense form. It became a living wall of fur and muscle, protecting her from the incoming assault. A guttural roar, filled with a terrifying, protective fury, ripped from its throat. It lunged, claws extended, tearing into Borislav’s men, a whirlwind of death and destruction. Bodies flew, armor crumpled, screams echoed off the frozen stones. Zbyhneva, delirious from the blood loss, watched through slitted eyes as the beast, Leslav, tore through the men who sought to harm her. This was not the mindless, hungry creature of the stable. This was a protector, a guardian. Her purpose, her sworn oath to clear her name, suddenly seemed distant, meaningless. What good was honor, what good was vindication, if the man who held the key to it all was lost to this consuming darkness? A new, desperate resolve ignited within her, burning through the haze of pain. Her hand reached out, smeared with her own blood, towards the monstrous form. “Leslav,” she whispered, her voice a ragged plea, barely audible above the din of battle, “fight it.”

The Red Reversal