Why?

Because everyone who followed him was walking toward the same probability calculations Thrak ran every morning.

Survival rates measured in percentages. Death as just another tactical variable.

"How's Varg?" Liam asked, changing the subject.

"Pissed off. Wants to fight something. I told him to wait." Koth shrugged. "He'll get his chance tonight."

"That confident?"

"Thrak's confident. And that mechanical bastard's calculations haven't been wrong yet." Koth turned to face Liam directly. "Question is, what's the play? We defend the walls? Set up another ambush? What?"

Liam looked out at the darkening eastern horizon. Somewhere out there, the Radiant Empire was moving. Calculating. Deciding that yesterday's disruption needed to be tested.

"We let them come," he said quietly. "And then we show them that last time wasn't luck."

---

The assault came three hours after sunset.

No warning. No preliminary bombardment. Just sudden movement in the darkness—two hundred infantry rushing the eastern gate while cavalry swung wide to flank the southern approach.

Exactly as Thrak had calculated.

"Estimated time to breach eastern gate: seven minutes," Thrak reported from his position on the rampart, his voice as calm as if he were describing the weather. "Cavalry will reach flanking position in nine minutes. Optimal defensive response—"

"Is already happening," Liam interrupted.

Because it was.

The garrison moved like Thrak's calculations. Forty demons to the eastern gate. Twenty to the southern wall. The rest held in reserve, positioned at exact intervals that maximized coverage while minimizing exposure to enemy ranged attacks.

Mechanical perfection.

The infantry hit the gate like a wave. Shields locked. Ladders rising. Battle cries that should have been terrifying but just sounded tired.

The defenders responded with the same exhausted efficiency. Arrows. Spears. Burning oil poured from murder holes.

Killing without passion or hatred or anything except the recognition that the enemy needed to die and therefore would die.

Mathematics.

"They're not breaking through," Koth observed. He stood beside Liam, watching the assault unfold with professional interest. "The gate will hold."

"For now."

"No. Period." Koth pointed to where Thrak had positioned reinforcements. "Look at the spacing. Every weak point covered. Every angle calculated. The mechanical bastard's built a perfect defense."

He was right. The assault was failing not through heroics or desperate stands, but through simple tactical superiority. The Radiant Empire was throwing bodies at a fortress that had been optimized over years of warfare.

They were losing.

"Cavalry flanking maneuver ineffective," Thrak reported. "Southern wall defenses performing within expected parameters. Enemy casualties exceed projections by fourteen percent. Recommend maintaining current defensive posture."

"Any sign of paladins?"

"Negative. Infantry-only assault. This is reconnaissance in force. They are testing defensive capability, not attempting to secure position." Thrak's pale eyes didn't leave the battle. "They will withdraw in approximately four minutes."

Three minutes and forty seconds later, the Radiant Empire forces retreated.

Just... withdrew. Like they'd gotten the data they came for and decided the cost of continuing exceeded the value of the information.

The garrison didn't celebrate or cheer. They swiftly began the process of treating wounded, repairing damage, and preparing for the next assault that mathematical probability said was inevitable.

"Acceptable outcome," Thrak declared. "Fourteen demon casualties, nine requiring extended recovery. Enemy casualties estimated at sixty-seven. Ratio: four-point-seven to one. Within acceptable parameters."

Liam descended from the rampart, moving through the aftermath. Demons were already dragging bodies—both demon and human—to designated areas.

Medical treatment proceeding with efficiency. Damage assessment teams checking wall integrity.

No one looked proud or relieved. Or anything except tired.

They'd won, and it didn't matter.

Because tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, the Radiant Empire would come again. And again. And again.

Until the mathematics shifted.

Until the grinding resumed.

"Lord Azra." Zara approached, her expression unreadable. "The scouts are reporting something."

"What?"

"Movement. East ridge. Single target." Her eyes narrowed. "Moving fast. Too fast for standard infantry. And coming straight for Vor'esh."

Liam's grey eyes shifted to the darkness beyond the walls. "Paladin?"

"The scouts aren't sure. Whatever it is, it's not trying to be subtle."

Thrak appeared beside them, having descended from his position with characteristic efficiency. "Analysis suggests high-value target. Paladins typically operate in units. Single combatant approaching fortified position indicates either reconnaissance specialist or..."

He trailed off—the first time Liam had ever seen the ancient commander hesitate.

"Or assassination specialist," Liam finished.

"Probability: seventy-three percent."

The courtyard had gone quiet. Demons sensed something had changed. The mechanical routine of post-battle operations slowing as awareness spread.

The Radiant Empire only sent an assassination specialist if a high value target was on the battlefield, like the leader of one of the houses or an Arch-Demon or even the queen.

However none of them were present.

And yet something was coming.

Something that didn't follow the normal tactical patterns.

"Orders?" Koth asked, his hand already on his weapon.

Liam stared at the eastern darkness. Felt something cold settle in his chest.

The Radiant Empire had tested the fortress. Now they were testing him.

"Everyone on the walls," he ordered. "Full defensive posture. Archers ready. If it's an assassin—"

The eastern gate exploded.

Not metaphorically. The reinforced wood and iron that had just withstood two hundred infantry simply detonated inward, shrapnel and splinters tearing through the courtyard.

And through the smoke and fire and scattered debris, a figure walked.

Tall.

Armored in white plate that glowed with golden light. Greatsword held casually in one hand, still dripping with the blood of the two scouts who'd been trying to raise the alarm.

Grand Commander Orin had arrived.

He looked at the assembled garrison with eyes that held nothing except disgust and disappointment. Then he smiled—a terrible expression on his scarred face.

And moved.

The first demon didn't even have time to scream. Orin's blade took his head in one smooth motion, the body still standing for a heartbeat before collapsing.

The second tried to raise a weapon.

Failed.

The greatsword punched through armor and flesh like paper, lifting the demon off his feet before throwing the corpse aside.

Third. Fourth. Fifth.

Orin moved through the garrison like a machine built for killing. Every strike precise. Every movement economical. No wasted effort or hesitation.

Just slaughter.

"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!" Koth roared, but it was too late.

The Grand Commander was already among them, his blade singing through demon flesh, his armor shrugging off strikes that should have crippled him.

He was perfect.

He was unstoppable.

He was everything Thrak was, but built for killing instead of surviving.

And as Liam watched demons fall—his demons, soldiers who'd survived plenty battles of grinding warfare—he realized something terrible.

The Radiant Empire had sent their own machine.

And it was better than theirs.

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