Perfume Bay outskirts — Myrish camp, a low hill.
It was the twelfth day of the siege.
"Sir, the Fifth Chiliarch refuses to continue the assault," one of Mitridas's personal guards reported. "He says it's already dusk, and pushing further will only exhaust the men even more…"
"I can see that!" Mitridas snapped, lowering his spyglass in irritation.
In the distance, many scaling ladders had been pushed off the walls by the Volantene defenders. One siege tower was burning fiercely, and several bodies in Myrish armor were being hurled from the battlements into the moat below.
The Myrish troops were pulling back — or rather, retreating before their lines completely collapsed under the rain of arrows and rolling logs.
"Damn these Volantenes!" Mitridas hissed through gritted teeth. "They must have planned this defense in advance! Look at it — ditches, chevaux de frise, rolling logs, boulders, and endless supplies!"
He flung the spyglass to a nearby aide in disgust.
"It's like a giant goddamn turtle!"
Yes — a giant turtle. That was Perfume Bay now. The once-beautiful, prosperous port had been reduced to ashes. The gardens and houses outside the walls were now filled with trenches, piles of rubble, and corpses.
The town, reinforced by the Volantenes into a bristling iron porcupine, still stood silently in the fading evening light. Torches on the walls flickered like mocking eyes, staring down at the exhausted Myrish army below.
Twelve days. Twelve days and the Myrish still hadn't taken the city. The brutal siege was grinding away at the soldiers' spirit and strength like a dull knife. Ladders were toppled, assault teams shattered under arrows and rolling stones, and the piles of bodies at the base of the walls gave off a sickly-sweet stench of decay. Unrest spread through the camp like plague. Men huddled around weak campfires, eyes hollow, muttering about hunger, casualties, and pointless deaths.
Today the Fifth Chiliarch had openly defied orders. It wasn't the first time officers had refused Mitridas's commands to attack. In truth, the junior and mid-level officers were now afraid to pass down his orders at all.
After all, Mitridas kept screaming "at any cost," but the soldiers and officers knew they were the cost.
And the cost was no longer willing to die for one idiot's glory.
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"Sleep after dark! Third squad — you're on first watch tonight!" Demetrius gave his orders to the squad leaders inside the tent, then stepped out and walked toward another smaller one nearby.
"Sir…" a voice called from behind him.
"What is it?" Demetrius asked impatiently.
"Uh, boss… about tonight's rations — can we get them early?" one squad leader asked, rubbing his hands awkwardly. "The brothers didn't assault the walls today, but we still pushed that siege tower all the way to the gate…"
"There is no food!" Demetrius replied coldly, delivering the bad news. "No rations for anyone who isn't first over the wall!"
"But sir…" the squad leader stammered. "What about bandages and medicine? One of my new kids took an arrow a few days ago and he's running a fever now…"
"None of that either," Demetrius sighed. "Those are scarce resources — priority goes to the first assault teams!"
"Sir, how is this even a war?" the squad leader burst out. "Twelve days! We've been stuck in this shithole for twelve days, starving for twelve days! Where's the food? The supply convoy from Stridar hasn't shown up at all! The little bit of moldy rice they hand out every day wouldn't even feed the camp rats!"
"Silence, sergeant!" Demetrius growled, glancing around before pulling his four squad leaders closer.
"Old Komi, you know that chest of mine… there's still a bit of salted meat and some medicine left. Give it to the wounded first, understand?"
"Yes, sir!" Old Komi nodded. "We'll follow you!"
After giving them a few more quiet instructions, Demetrius left.
A more secluded corner of the camp.
"Demetrius, you're here?" A centurion with a fresh scar on his face greeted him as he approached.
Around the meager fire sat several other centurions and company commanders, their faces tired, haggard, and full of resentment in the flickering light.
"How are your supplies?" Demetrius asked. "Any food left?"
"None," a light-cavalry officer replied.
"The horses are eating grass now. The oats and eggs we saved are reserved for the assault troops. Not that it matters — there are no field battles anymore, only sieges…"
"Bullshit!" The scarred centurion spat hard into the dirt.
"I heard Volantene cavalry scouts have been spotted behind us! Sounds like the Fifth Legion of the Tiger Cloaks — those wind-swift raiders who fight the Dothraki!"
"What kind of fucking war is this? We're cursed! Where's the food? Where are the promised supplies?! The little bit they give us now wouldn't even fill a tooth gap! That idiot general only knows how to order us to attack the walls — attack my ass! The brothers barely have the strength to lift their shields anymore!"
"Quiet!" the cavalry officer hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.
"You really think the fighting is just going badly? Let me tell you — the problem starts at the top!" He pointed vaguely toward the main command tent. "Our 'brilliant and divine' General Mitridas — you really think he earned his position through merit?"
He leaned in close, almost whispering. "I have a distant relative who works in the Myr governor's palace. He told me in secret… our general has no real talent. He got this command by… warming the governor's bed! Yes — by selling his ass! The governor is completely wrapped around his finger and actually believes he's some military genius!"
"Bullshit! That's…" The scarred centurion was stunned.
Putting a man who rose by selling his body in charge of us? Are they insane?
Demetrius spoke softly, his voice carrying a tone of hopeless calm. "Whether it's true or not… does it even matter anymore? Look at these twelve days. Besides sending brothers to smash against the walls like pigs and ordering us to die, what else has he done? If the rumors are true, everything suddenly makes sense. A fool who rose through dirty means — what else can he do except spend soldiers' lives to fill the gap?"
"Wait!" Demetrius suddenly tensed, ears straining. "What's happening outside?"
In the distance, what had started as scattered complaints and groans suddenly erupted into violent chaos! First came sharp screams, then a growing roar of voices, the clash of weapons, panicked running, and a low, thunderous rumble that made the ground tremble faintly!
Several officers shot to their feet, exhaustion and resentment instantly replaced by shock and instinctive dread. They exchanged glances — all seeing the same fear in each other's eyes.
Something big was happening.
"Mutiny! It's a mutiny! The Third Chiliarch has taken his men and is storming the command tent!" Old Komi burst into the firelight, gasping as he delivered the news.
The words hit like a thunderclap. The suppressed despair around the campfire vanished, replaced by bone-chilling terror.
Demetrius jumped up, hand already on his sword hilt. The distant uproar was no longer random complaints — it had become a clear, furious roar, mixed with the crash of armor, weapons, and chaotic footsteps surging toward the main command tent!
The scarred centurion muttered, "The Third Chiliarch… he actually dared…"
Demetrius's heart pounded, blood rushing to his head then turning ice-cold.
"Let's go!" he growled, no longer hesitating. "We have to see this! We can't let our own people tear each other apart first…"
But in truth, Demetrius knew better than anyone — they weren't going to stop their own people from rioting to "protect the general."
They were going to see which side they should join to survive.
They needed to judge how strong this mutiny led by the Third Chiliarch Karlos really was, how many men were behind it. They had to decide whether Mitridas still had the power — or was even worth protecting.
Most importantly, they needed to find a position for themselves and their brothers in this sudden outbreak of internal chaos — a position where they could live through the night.
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