Dawn arrived on horn blasts. Three short notes, one long—the call Rafe had scrawled beneath a skull doodle in his signal book: Enemy in sight.
Edric was already buckling his coat when Brynn burst through the door.
"South road—two banners, thirty shields. Geldar's levy," she said, breathing hard but grinning like a wolf who finally smelled meat. "Time to see if bows talk louder than rumors."
They reached the half-built fighting platform just as the first enemy ranks shook themselves out of march columns. Brown tunics, mismatched helms, a scatter of hooked arrows poking from quivers. At their head trotted a knight in polished mail too fine for this crew—Sir Aven Geldar, youngest son of the baron and proud owner of an ego matched only by his plume.
Garrick spat over the parapet. "Plume looks like a dead rooster."
From the tower roof, Cress whistled twice: Scouts broke left. Wren echoed the call. Edric felt a ripple of pride—two former grain thieves now served as his early-warning system.
"Archers up," Garrick ordered. Ten ugly bows rose, strings creaking. "Hold 'til the rooster crows."
Aven Geldar obliged, reining in within arrow range and shouting up at the wall. "Vale! Send out the prince for terms, or we'll scorch your toy keep like we did your farms!"
Behind Edric, Will muttered, "Toy keep?" in a tone that suggested he might turn the whole thing upside down if given a minute.
Brynn cupped both hands around her mouth. "We've got enough scorch for the both of us. Care to share?"
A few recruits laughed; tension cracked just enough to let steady breaths in. Aven's cheeks reddened—or maybe it was the rooster plume reflecting sunrise. He raised an arm. Archers nocked.
Garrick's deep voice rumbled. "Steady… loose!"
Ten arrows hissed down, junk-wood shafts wobbling but eager. One thunked shield, two clattered on helmets, one kissed Aven's plume—shaving half of it clean off. The knight recoiled as if struck by a spear. Laughter erupted on the parapet, even from Brynn.
Aven's reply was a furious arm flail. Geldar arrows launched, hooked heads seeking flesh. Most clanged off stone, but one struck the goat's balcony, earning an offended bleat. The animal charged inside, headbutting a bucket for revenge. Will barked a laugh he instantly tried to swallow.
"Bows again!" Garrick roared. But the levy advanced, shields raised. "Brace for ladders!"
Edric ran for the inner courtyard. Fiona and Merra hurried spearmen to assigned stations, new hide-rim shields gleaming. He caught Fiona by the elbow. "Chain-woven boards to the west stair. Activate only once they meet you—save crash."
She nodded, eyes huge yet steady. Behind her, Merra flipped a spear and grinned. "Let's see if rope-cutter hooks slice shield spikes too."
Wooden ladders slapped stone. Hooked arrow fire thickened as Geldar archers tried to pin defenders. Will—now beside Edric at the northern crenel—raised Old Shieldy II. Two arrows stuck, barbs failing to bite through boar hide. His face lit with surprised triumph.
"Door's holding, Prince!"
"Told you it would," Edric said, though relief filled him fast enough to wobble the next breath.
Below, Sir Garrick led a knot of spears to the south gate. He wore no helm—never liked the tunnel vision—and his beard flared like iron filings around a grin. At Brynn's signal the gate yawned and the little sortie burst out, spears driving into the levy's left flank. Shock rippled the brown line; two ladders toppled.
Edric read the moment—if they could shove, break, retreat, the levy might rethink the morning. He shouted down, "Garrick, pull back before they box you!"
Either Garrick didn't hear or chose not to. He lunged at a pikeman, point punching through leather, then ripped free, laughing. A hook-arrow whistled in—a freak shot that curved like fate. It sank deep under his collarbone. For a second he just stared at the shaft, as if puzzled it hadn't stuck in the wood behind him. Then his legs folded.
"Gate!" Brynn screamed, voice cracking for the first time Edric had heard. The sortie buckled. Ronan vaulted down the stairs, tower shield blazing as two more arrows rasped off its rim. He reached Garrick, dragged him by cloak, roaring orders the whole way.
Edric forced breath deep, harnessed the tremor of fear into action.
"Will—cover ladder three!" He raced down the wall, bracer burning. Halfway he pressed thumb to the Chain rune on Fiona's shield; gold light rippled outward like sunrise. Pain lanced skull and ribs—manageable, so far. The chain-woven boards flared, rebounding arrows mid-air; Fiona's line shoved ladders back whence they came.
Ronan staggered through the gate arch, Garrick's weight sagging. Blood sheeted from the older knight's chest. Brynn knelt, tore at her cloak for pressure wrap, but one glance at Edric across the courtyard told the truth—artery cut. Garrick's fingers found Edric's wrist.
"Wall…held," he rasped. "Good wall." His lips shaped more words, maybe a joke about roosters, but breath failed. Fingers slackened; eyes dimmed.
Brynn's head bowed only a heartbeat. Then she rose like drawn steel. "Close gate. Fire pots on ladders. Archers—stone tips!"
Orders snapped; rage lit every motion. Within fifteen minutes the levy—unnerved by fire, crushed by falling ladder frames—pulled back to the treeline, dragging their dead and what remained of their pride. Aven's half-plume fluttered pitifully behind him.
Smoke from burning ladders drifted upward, carrying the sharp scent of pitch and fresh grief. Garrick's body lay on a makeshift bier in the chapel alcove, cloak folded over the wound. Rafe hovered nearby with quill trembling, unsure which ledger column earned a death.
Edric dismissed him gently, then found Brynn on the parapet, hands wrapped white around the stone. She didn't look up.
"He died laughing," she said. "Wanted that. Said so once."
"Then we'll remember it that way." Edric's own voice felt scraped raw.
"I should've called him back."
"He knew the line."
"He stayed too long."
"Because it gave us time."
Brynn's shoulders trembled once, then stilled. "We hang his helm over the forge. Every spark sees it."
"Agreed." He touched the bracer. Light purred under fingers—only a bruise today, but eight Crown pulses still loomed. Spend wisely.
Below, Fiona directed six recruits stacking salvaged ladder wood—fuel for shield curing. Will hammered his broken door plank into a training dummy's arm. Work rolled on, grief channelled into motion.
Ronan approached, bucket helm off for once, eyes red. "Levies won't try again until they bury their dead," he said. "Two days, maybe three."
"Then we use them," Edric answered. "Arrowheads, wall braces, and we finish Garrick's archery platform. No more blind spots."
Ronan nodded, then lifted a tremulous smile. "Goat's moved into the kitchen. Claims commander's quarters."
"Let it. Commander earned them." Edric managed a ghost of a grin.
Night later draped the keep in quiet black. The banner above the gate caught torchlight—blood prints, tusks, soot smears. Now a single grey helm hung below it, plume burned away, iron pitted, but still a helm.
Ronan lingered after the others drifted off, visor raised, helm clasped in both hands.
"Could've reached him," he muttered, voice flat as dropped steel.
Edric stayed silent; Garrick's laugh seemed to echo in the hush.
"I've blocked fifty charges—maybe sixty," Ronan went on, eyes fixed on the grey helm. "Thought that made me quick."
He set his tower shield against the wall—gently, as if it might bruise.
"Next time," Edric said, "your shield will already be there."
Ronan drew a shaky breath, nodded once, and followed Brynn toward the barracks.
Ashcoil curled around the helm's base, scales pulsing as if guarding it. The serpent turned its head, eyes reflecting firelight, and whispered one word into Edric's mind:
Stand.
Edric stood. Tomorrow they would count names again, one fewer, but still more than none. He set his hand to stone—warm from torches, stained by smoke—and vowed the wall would never stand alone.