Chương 354: 7.i

I write these words upon the page once more, to affirm that I still breathe, that I am present within this cursed city, alive, if only barely. It is now the third dawn of this relentless siege, where the Wallachian monsters haunt us under the shroud of night. I cannot say how many more nights we might endure before we are utterly broken. The griff handlers are down to half of their trained strikers, their losses cold and silent beyond the walls.

From what I count, perhaps a hundred of those star-blessed beasts remain, mostly the most aged and the strongest, weathered beyond their years, bearing scars of battles that seem more than they can endure. Yet, even their might is no shield from the darkness that seeks to swallow us whole. The toll is written in quiet anguish, lamentations amongst the masters and the apprentices, the young creatures cruelly robbed of their fleeting lives.

Some brave the daylight, risking their fragile hopes, to recover the dead so they might find a shred of honor for those lost. But the darkness that besets us waits not just until night to pour forth its horrors, more numbers, more terror. We see the monsters in the daylight, their eyes gleaming cruelly in the sun's feeble light, they come in numbers in the dark, but the day assures no safety. Those lucky enough to spot them in time manage to retreat behind the walls or to flee before they are taken. But the others?

Their bodies are cast beyond the ramparts, their screams piercing the daylight hours, rousing those of us who still find strength to sleep beneath the sun's watchful gaze. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. My father's last words, so many years past, cling to my mind each new morning like a ghost. His plea, to flee westward, southward, toward Orad, he said. To seek refuge from the same monsters that now, unrelenting, besiege us here. He believed it would save me.

I am grateful for these walls, for the hours of quiet reflection they grant. To breathe once more, just for a day, such a mercy from the stars that now feels. Precious after nights filled with shrieks of hunger. Shadows moving as the blood-drainers lunge, their strength impossible to believe, clawing and scrambling up the defenses. Those sounds, wet, tearing, when they scream, their throats ripping apart under the weight of their hunger, enough to make one's skin crawl.

When they finally reach the ramparts, past the wargriffs' fierce efforts, my heart always stalls. I brace my spear, praying to the stars of my family, begging that this might not be the night I fail, that I will not miss the vital strike and be torn from the safety of the walls like so many others before me. Night after night, these abominations mock us, treating us as playthings. They could have scaled the walls that first night, broken us like brittle clay.

Instead, they come in small bands—just enough to snatch an unlucky soul, throw them to the ground, then leap over in greed to feast or fight over the blood-stained spoils. The walls are a place of horror, yes, but better than the dark beyond, better than crouching in the town, waiting for the guard to falter, waiting for the vampires to descend and rip us apart in our sleep. I will try to rest now in the warmth of the sun. May I yet live through another night! - Last Entry, Journal of Sarolt Karaoglu.