Perched on the wall, legs dangling thirty feet above the mud, Dray watches an army emerge from the treeline like oil—slow, thick, relentless. As they set up camp with geometric precision just outside bowshot, the question haunts: why are they really here? For worthless gold? A rotting town? Or is he truly worth an army of mercenaries? With empty towers, absent sentries, and Orso nowhere to be found, the siege begins not with violence, but with the methodical patience of men who always earn their pay.