The Seige Of Stone

(Paige’s POV)

A weight settles where words should be, colder than steel meant for shadows.

What are you?

Heavy flakes pile up now, dusting his coat, the body lying still beneath him, my shaking fingers too. No reply comes to mind. Whatever force had used my voice has vanished, replaced by a silence that rings inside. Standing there, speaking things beyond knowing, facing the edge of nothing - yet it’s his stare that cuts deepest, full of distance, not recognition.

Wind thrashes the tall trees as I barely speak. "Paige," I say, so quiet it almost disappears. Not special. Just here. That's all

A sharp edge shapes Noah’s mouth. Wonder fades there, replaced - slowly - by something colder, sharper: the watchful doubt of someone used to power. Red spreads across pale fabric, drawn from a cut on his arm.

Alex reaches us, his face grim. “The decoys were a ruse. Well-trained. We were drawn into a skirmish half a mile west. It was a diversion. My lord, I failed - ”

Late, says Noah, eyes stuck on mine. Hold back the corpse. Go through it. Need everything he carried. His words come sharp, clean. That soft look vanishes, smothered by what must be done. He moves my way, steps firm. For one breathless stretch, fear grips - will he reach out? Will hands take hold? Off comes his thick coat, soaked in red, shrugged down fast. He drapes it over my shoulders, on top of the one I took. Over mine it falls, a weight both shield and claim. Tightness in the way he moves says anger stitched into care.

“You will explain,” he says, his voice low and taut. “Every word. But not here.”

Darkness drapes over the road to Blackstone like a held breath. Ahead, Noah cuts through the cold, motionless on horseback, jaw locked. Surrounded by riders, I sit caught between safety and suspicion. Their formation means shelter, yet my skin stays numb. His coat hangs heavy, useless against the chill beneath my ribs. My words return now - sharp - from that open field. Penance ends here.

What made me think of Rosemere? Of a boy? Never set foot in that place. Yet the thought sat quiet, already present, tucked where killer and I almost touched, just before words began.

Out of the snowstorm, Blackstone's huge gates rise - both shelter and trap. Right after stepping off our horses into the flickering courtyard, everything spins sideways. Fergus comes forward, his calm face split open by something raw: true fear.

“Scouts have returned, Your Grace,” he says, dispensing with any formality. “Greymont’s men. Not a raiding party. An army. They’re moving up the southern pass. They’ll be at the foot of the ridge by dawn.”

A weight drops into the yard, sudden and heavy. Now it is not one killer they dread, but the deep rumble of battle moving closer.

Noah doesn’t flinch. He becomes a conduit of terrifying energy. “Close the mountain passes. Every last one. Bring all outlying families and their flocks inside the walls. We need an inventory of every grain of wheat, every arrow, every barrel of water. Rationing starts now. Man the foundry - melt anything that isn’t essential and make it into arrowheads or shrapnel.”

Barking sharp commands, he turns into a commander when everything falls apart. Soldiers rush off in every direction, blown apart just like dry leaves caught in heavy wind.

After that, he looks my way. "Come along." He points at himself, then me

There he goes, steering clear of our room, heading instead toward the war chamber - an empty space near the great hall, no warmth, just walls and silence. Inside, a massive rough-hewn table takes up most of the floor, weighed down by a map spread wide across its surface. Off comes his armor, each tug bringing a sharp breath through clenched teeth - the cut along his forearm tugging tight with every motion.

“Sit,” he orders.

I don’t. “Your arm needs to be seen to.”

“Can wait,” he says, leaning into the table, hands pressed down, gaze dropped. A breath. Then he lifts his face - anger remains, though now tangled with something worn thin. “The things you said… to the Penance. That came from where?”

I wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t know. They just… were there. When I saw him, when I knew he was going to kill you… it was like I could see the weight he carried. The crimes. It was a… a feeling. And the words came with it.”

“A feeling,” he repeats, his voice flat. “You looked into the eyes of a legendary killer and recited his unconfessed sins like a priest at a hanging. That’s more than a feeling, Paige. That is a weapon I did not know you had.”

“It’s not a weapon!” I cry out, the frustration and fear boiling over. “I can’t control it! I didn’t try to do it! I was just trying to stop him, and that… that thing came out of me!” Tears of helplessness sting my eyes. “I’m as scared of it as you are.”

Water on my face makes something crack in him. Off the chair he moves, closing the gap without sound. Hands rise, yet take nothing - instead, they hold my jaw, thumbs scraping trails where wetness runs. Rough skin meets damp heat. It feels like waking up.

He leans close, words barely more than breath. Fear isn’t aimed at you - he swallows hard - it’s shaped around you. Seeing the future? One burden. But a woman who names what hides inside you before you know it yourself? Such truth cuts deeper than any blade. Empires have collapsed just trying to control something like that. Out there by the wall, Greymont's soldiers stand. Could it be they know? Maybe word reached them, so here they are

A weight shifts inside my chest. Not doubt - something deeper crawls into view. What moves him is older than thought: a raw clutch in the gut, like holding light too long in endless dark, knowing every shadow now hides a blade meant for that glow.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I’m sorry I left the keep. I’m sorry I interfered. I just… I couldn’t let the vision be true.”

A shift passes across his face, subtle but clear. “You brought me back. For the second time,” he murmurs, as if gratitude weighs too heavily. His brow touches my skin, light yet firm. “Yet there’s something I need from you. Stay below when battle comes. Let them fight above. Don’t step near the ramparts.”. Survival comes first - no helping, nothing else. That is your task. Swear it

It burns inside me to speak up. Staying back while he steps forward feels wrong, deep in my chest. His gaze holds none of its usual softness. That stops me. A vow slips out, quiet - “I promise” - yet it stains my mouth like something spoiled.

His lips touch mine - short, firm, sealing the deal. "Fine," he says, stepping back. "Show me whatever the Penance had on board."

In walks Alex, arms full of a worn leather bag and some loose things. A shake of the head comes first. Not much worth anything here, just usual supplies. Yet there’s this one thing. Out comes a folded sheet of paper, edges stiff, shut tight with dull grey wax. Hidden it had been, stitched beneath the cloth right against his chest

A piece of paper passes into Noah's hands. With careful fingers, he tears open the edge. The moment it spreads flat, words catch his attention. Lines blur as his gaze moves fast across the page. Cold air bites. Blood drains slower than before. Then, a shift - his skin turns ghostlike, emptier than bone.

My voice comes out quiet, fear tightening inside me like a spring. A question hangs between us - what could it be?

Silence comes first. Then, the parchment passes into my hands.

Every line sits straight, sharp, yet cold in its clarity. Letters form with care, showing no hesitation. Each stroke feels deliberate, leaving nothing to chance.

Greymont sends his regards. Not the Duke - focus on the witch instead. Bring her back whole, with thoughts still hers. Crack that, and the land’s heart follows. Mountains bow when she does. A sudden attack creates the cover needed. Once you finish, twice your money comes. Failure is not an option.

The letters blur like ripples on water. She pays what the curse demands.

Extract her mind.

Beneath its weight, the peak begins to bow.

That moment had nothing to do with ending Noah or claiming dirt. Me. They want me. Not my body - what I’ve seen, what stirs now inside. The thing waking up - that’s what they’re after.

Fingers stiff and cold, I let go as Noah lifts the paper away. Above the single flickering candle, he lets one corner dip down - fire bites fast, turning the rim to ash. Smoke rises while Greymont's message shrivels into darkness.

“No one else sees this,” he says to Alex, his voice deathly quiet. “The men are to be told the assassin was here for me. To break our spirit before the siege. Is that clear?”

Fine then, Your Grace. Stone masks his face, yet our eyes lock - just once. A flash of fire lives there now, sharp and fresh. Not mere orders anymore. Duty sinks lower, roots itself beyond command.

"The siege..." I finally get out.

“Is a feint,” Noah finishes, his eyes like chips of flint. “A giant, bloody diversion to pull every man to the walls, to create chaos, so that smaller, quieter men can slip in and take you.” He turns to Alex. “Change the guard rotations. No one guards the duchess alone. Two men, at all times, on her door. Men we trust with our lives. Her life.”

“It will be done.”

The door bursts open before Alex can leave. A young scout, coated in snow and panting, stumbles in. “Your Grace! Forgive me! The vanguard… they’re moving faster than we thought. They’ve reached the lower valley. They’re… they’re lighting fires.”

A shape moves toward the tight space by the glass. Far off, below the shadowed hillside, a flash of amber glows through the black. A second follows. A third appears - none are flames from tents or travelers’ pits.

Fires swallowed the houses where families lived. Smoke curled above broken walls. Roofs collapsed under orange flames. People stood watching, hands empty. Warmth turned to ash overnight.

The fight started without warning. A long wait ended in chaos. Now everything moves fast.

A noise comes out of Noah, but it isn’t speech. From deep in his chest rises a rumble, like an animal catching the scent of trespassers. Whatever remained of the southern noble has faded completely. Now only the cold pulse of northern wildness remains.

Facing away from the glass, he stands. Fear lingers on his face, yet beneath it something denser takes shape - anger wider than the peaks behind us, sealed tight like ice.

“They want a war for a witch?” he says, his voice filling the cold stone room. “Then let them see how a mountain fights.”

Something flickers in his eyes when they meet mine - cold, unshakable. Not a word spoken, yet I know he’d flood these halls with blood before letting Greymont come near. The silence between us carries the weight of what he’s willing to destroy.

A low boom rolls in from far away, shaking the rock beneath feet. Could be a ram slamming wood. Maybe stones hurled by machine. Cracks hum along the stone.