At dawn, the plains did not wake—they trembled.
From beyond the hills, the Gale Army advanced in disciplined silence, a tide of iron and will. Banners of storm blue and black snapped in the rising wind. Each step shook the earth like a distant drumbeat. Thousands moved as one. The breath of their exertion met the cold morning air and vanished like ghosts.
Ahead stood Zhong Capital, a city carved into legend and memory. Ancient. Immense. Impenetrable.
Two concentric rings of walls rose from the plains, draped in banners of imperial red and gold. The outer wall, a barrier of stone and steel, embraced the common quarters and outer garrisons. But it was the inner wall, dense with sigils and crowned with watchtowers, that held the true might of Zhong—the military command, the noble estates, the final seat of power.
Behind it all stood the Imperial Citadel, lacquered black and crimson, marked with war glyphs from an age long past. From the West Gate, which faced the lake harbor, the shimmer of wardlight pulsed faintly like the breath of a sleeping beast.
Each of Zhong's four gates guarded a different front—sea, mountains, roads, and steppe. The East Gate, open to the wind-scoured plains, was the most exposed. That was where Altan struck.
The Gale Army spread across the grasslands in a wide crescent. The sky darkened with the dust of their arrival.
Thirteen legions, four thousand cavalry, and eight hundred Stormriders stood ready. Their formation was a fortress of bodies. At the front, Stormguard legions waited—silent, masked, and still as statues. Behind them, the regulars shifted gear, adjusted belts, checked spear tips. They spoke little. Their commanders walked the lines in silence.
Altan rode along the ridge, his black cloak trailing behind him like a banner of judgment. Beside him strode his inner circle—Chaghan of the Stormguard, Burgedai the Tactician, Khulan of the Spears, and Batu Stormwake, whose eyes missed nothing.
A courier arrived from the west flank, his horse foaming, his armor streaked with dust.
He knelt. "No reinforcements. The southern roads are still. The lake gates are closed. Northern passes are snowed in."
Altan didn't move. "Then they're alone. Good."
He turned to Burgedai. "Begin the earthworks. Two trenches. Deep and wide. Reinforce the inner ring with sigil stone and copper lines. If we're building graves, make them sacred."
Burgedai gave a tight nod. "Geomancers are ready. The land here listens. We'll break it to our rhythm."
Altan pointed to the siege engineers. "Lay markers for the towers. We follow Lanhe models. Fire-slingers on the east. Ballista arrays at the center. Compacted towers for scaling. Get those smiths working."
A senior engineer stepped forward. "We don't have the numbers to move this fast."
Altan's tone cut clean. "Pull from the rear legions. Builders, masons, crafters. I don't care if they trained with swords—if their hands know wood or stone, they work."
He gestured to his aide. "Send hawks to the freed cities. Namten. Thao. Khurin. We need bodies—fighters, medics, cooks, runners. Promise land, coin, citizenship. Any man or woman who can carry water or drag a beam. We don't wait."
The aide bowed and ran.
Altan faced Stormwake. "Guard the supply roads. The Steppe Trail, the Namten line, the merchant route through Red Hollow. No caravan disappears. No mule goes missing. Zhong's allies will try to bleed us from behind."
Stormwake's voice was cold. "We'll burn their camps before they unpack."
Khulan raised his helm. "I'll send the riders wide. Flank screens, rotating wings. If there's movement, we'll ride it down."
By midday, the Gale camp stirred with energy. Qi flowed through trenches, channeled by geomancer teams drawing old sigils into stone. The rhythm of labor surged: hammers rang, wheels creaked, voices shouted over rising wind. Camps became forts. Ditches became wards. Every breath was drawn with purpose.
Inside the city, the atmosphere curdled.
Soldiers atop the wall stared across the plains. Their armor gleamed, but their eyes flickered.
"They're not marching anymore," one said, swallowing. "They're digging."
"They're not leaving."
In Zhong's towers, generals bickered behind closed doors. "We must strike now, while they're still setting up—" "No, we wait. They're trying to bait us." "But the civilians—"
The cries of panicked citizens echoed into the higher rings. Refugees swelled the inner city. Storehouses were sealed. Rations weighed and counted.
One gate guard leaned against his spear and whispered, "This doesn't feel like a siege. It feels like a noose."
In the trenches outside, morale swayed with the setting sun.
Mud clung to boots. Blisters cracked. Tempers frayed.
"I thought we'd be storming gates, not shoveling dirt."
"You want to stand in the open when fire bolts rain down? Dig."
One young conscript tossed a shovel aside. "This isn't what I trained for."
A Stormguard passed in silence, armor black, mask impassive. The conscript shivered.
"Gods, he looked at me. Just stood there. Didn't blink. Do they even eat?"
"Not like we do."
Farther back, siege towers were assembled piece by piece. Volunteers dragged beams under shouted orders. Some muttered prayers. Others cursed the weight.
A woman carrying a bucket paused. "My village burned three months ago. If we take this city, I want the house with a red roof. Just one."
That night, Altan stood before the gathered troops, backlit by the firelines. The Stoneheart Resonance within him pulsed—low, steady, the heartbeat of a mountain. His breath synced with the qi around him. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
His voice rolled like thunder over the fields and walls.
"To the people of Zhong. You have seven days."
"If you don't wish to die behind these walls, leave. Go. We won't stop you. The roads remain open."
Silence followed.
Then: doors creaked. Wagons rolled. Mothers cried. Lanterns dotted the dark as lines of civilians streamed out under cover of night.
Fifty thousand left the city before dawn.
The Gale Army watched them pass. No blade was drawn.
By morning, the trenches were deeper. The towers stood taller. Smoke from distant forges curled toward the clouds.
Stormwake stood beside Altan. "The freed cities are answering. Namten sends two hundred masons and three grain wagons. Thao sent volunteers. Khurin offers silver and a banner of fresh recruits—six hundred strong. They're on the march."
Altan nodded once. "Then we keep the pressure. Stone by stone. Breath by breath."
He turned back to the wall.
The city still stood. But its silence had cracked.
The siege had begun—not in fire and blood, but with earth, qi, and will.
And Altan knew: this was no mere battle.
This was the final act of an empire's breath.