Rain drifted across the courtyard in a silver mist—soft, insistent, everywhere at once. Even so, Innisford buzzed like a hive: Merra's apprentices stretched green boar-hide over oak frames; Will hauled beams two at a time, complaining cheerfully to anyone who would listen; and Rafe stalked between them with his ledger, clucking over nails that vanished and debts that multiplied. Edric crossed the yard with Ashcoil warm at his neck, the serpent's scales pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm. His bandaged arm throbbed where the dire-boar tusk had kissed him, yet every hammer-ring turned pain into resolve.
Under a canvas awning a cedar bier cradled Sir Garrick. His scarred helm rested on folded hands; rain tapped iron like a patient drummer. Brynn stepped onto an overturned barrel, torch hissing in her fist.
"Garrick Stone-Warder served forty years and laughed through half," she said. "We give him flame, then we keep swinging."
She held the torch toward Edric. He touched it to the straw; fire flared orange, stubborn against the drizzle. Ronan laid a gauntlet on Brynn's shoulder; her single green eye stayed dry, yet her jaw trembled once. When flames sagged to ruby coals, Edric faced the yard.
"He left work unfinished. We finish it today—archer-platform, palisade to the river, hooks drilled from every shield. Each board we raise says his fall mattered."
A rough, unified roar answered; the yard moved before the last ember died.
Axes bit pine; sap spattered boots. Fiona's hammer rang, sparks sketching hook-glyphs that vanished in rain. Will heaved a beam onto a saw-horse, humming Brynn's cadence under his breath.
Brynn strode over, slapping a snapped arrow barb into Edric's palm.
"Pulled this off a shield. Geldar slag—twist and it snaps." She cracked the tip on an anvil; shards flew. "Teach that twist at evening drill."
Rafe bustled up. "Eight bows repaired, six new finished, forty-three arrows fletched— and the goat ate half a quiver."
"Give the beast a salt brick before it chews a spear," Edric said. Rafe wrote Unexpected Losses—1 and scurried off.
Dust-caked Sir Harlan Stone-Ward trotted in from patrol, split a practice shaft with a lazy shot, then barked stance orders. Will's first arrow wobbled.
"Grip's too tight—milk a goat like that and you'll get kicked," Harlan growled. Will loosened his fingers; the next arrow drilled true. He whooped; Harlan merely nodded.
Near the forge Fiona tested a hide-rim shield on a hanging rope. One swipe—rope parted clean.
"Hook lasts fifteen minutes!" she called.
"Twenty before month's out," Edric answered. She flashed a soot-smudged grin and dove back to work, sparks dancing around her like stray fireflies.
Ashcoil slithered down the beam beside her, tongue tasting copper in the damp.
"Tell your snake that shield isn't a snack," Fiona said without looking up.
"He's admiring craftsmanship," Edric replied. The serpent's eyes glimmered agreement.
Will set his beam down, stretching sore shoulders. "Prince, any chance we carve a goat-proof rune next? My boots would thank us."
"After the wall stops leaking," Edric said, and Will groaned theatrically but returned to work.
By mid-afternoon clouds thinned to pale streaks. Brynn assembled spear lines on the drill ground; dull hooks thudded into shields, recruits twisted, metal clattered free. Will's new board—Old Shieldy II—took two hits without cracking; he grinned over the rim, pride wrestling fatigue.
Cress slid down a ladder, boots splashing. "Smoke on the north trail. Small fire, no banners."
"Let them watch us build," Brynn said. "We choose the ground."
Work pressed on. Stakes were rammed beside the river, forming a ragged picket. Steam curled from soaking bowstaves, and the goat—now ribboned with a crooked strip of cloth—chewed an abandoned boot with dignified purpose. Edric paused to help Merra haul a tub of hot water, the smell of wet pine and boiled hide rising like sharp tea.
"Never thought we'd be tanners too," Merra muttered.
"Never thought I'd lead more than a library debate," Edric answered, and they shared a tired laugh that felt almost like strength.
Just before dusk Ronan clanked up in full armor. "Bows reach fifty paces. Goat's moved into the kitchen—claims the hearth."
"Better a goat in the kitchen than an arrow in the cook," Edric said.
Ronan chuckled. "Cook disagrees. Goat keeps stealing onions."
His grin faded as his gaze found Garrick's helm—now hanging beneath the gate banner.
"We win tomorrow, we paint that helm gold."
"Grey suits walls," Edric replied. "Gold is for crowns." Ronan considered, then nodded once.
Night settled clear; stars scattered like fresh-struck sparks on black iron. Lanterns dotted the parapet, each a thumb of flame against the dark. Fiona banked the forge; embers floated upward, crimson and slow. Stakes gleamed beside the river, promising pain to whatever tried them.
Edric leaned on the merlon, watching treeline shadows. Brynn stepped beside him, cloak still damp.
"He vowed to die in bed telling filthy stories," she murmured.
"He chose another story so we could keep ours," Edric said.
"If dawn comes hard, I hold the gap. Spend a Crown if you must."
"Only if the wall buckles."
"Wall's tougher than you think." She squeezed his arm and paced on, tapping ropes, nudging torches upright.
Alone, Edric let his eyes close and heard echoes: Garrick's gravel-rich laugh after that first muddy drill—miss once, learn twice, the veteran had said, thumping Edric's shoulder hard enough to rattle bone. The memory cut and warmed at the same time.
Ashcoil slid from his shoulders, coiling around Garrick's helm. Rune-scales glowed ember-bright; the serpent's tongue flicked, tasting the night. Edric traced the banner overhead: blood-red palms, crossed tusks, six soot streaks from fiery arrows, and the grey helm heavy beneath it all.
Beyond the stakes the dark held its breath; only rivervoice and the hiss of cooling iron stirred the hush. One long sentence uncoiled in his mind, sure as any rune: Every board we raised today, every arrow nocked tomorrow, every heartbeat traded between—each is a plank in the bridge from fear to resolve, and we will cross it together.
Footsteps approached—Fiona, carrying a candle stub.
"Prince, I saved you stew. Try to eat before you fall over."
"Thank you," he said, accepting the bowl. The broth tasted mostly of onion and hope.
She lingered. "Hook rune's almost ready for steel blades."
"After tomorrow," he promised. "We'll test it on something that bites back."
Fiona nodded and slipped away, candle bobbing like a patient star.
Edric set the empty bowl aside. "Tomorrow," he whispered, "hooks will snap, boards will hold, and we'll count names—still more than none."
Ashcoil pulsed gold, sealing the vow. Edric drew a slow breath—pine, coal, distant hint of boar fat from the kitchen—and turned toward the stair. Work was done; the wall would keep watch now. Behind him the banner lifted higher in a rising wind, telling its growing story to the silent trees.