The scroll crackled as Master Grevan smoothed it open, the parchment sighing like something old and reluctant to remember. Ink-etched rivers and fractured borders sprawled across the table — the remnants of an empire that once stretched from sea to sea.
"Before the Banewall," he began, his voice as dry and brittle as the parchment itself, "this realm was not so quiet. The Western Reaches bled for centuries — kings, mages, priests… all clawing at power they could not control. And when they lost it, they created them."
His quill tapped once against a jagged black line near the edge of the map."The Damned," he said simply.
A faint chill threaded through the air. Even the candles seemed to shrink a little.
Caelia straightened in her chair, quill poised above the page. I, on the other hand, leaned back and stifled a yawn. I'd heard this lecture before — or at least the boring, state-approved version.
"They were men once," Grevan continued, eyes narrowing as though daring either of us to interrupt. "Scholars call them the Lost Legions, though the name is far too kind. They delved too deep into the Old Powers, clawed open gates that were never meant to be touched. Their bodies perished, but their souls lingered — twisted, cursed to remain."
He gestured toward the jagged black scar that marked the western border. "And so the Banewall was raised — to keep them out… and to keep us from becoming them again." That last part he said softly. Almost reverently.
I drummed my fingers against the desk. "So," I muttered, "a glorified ghost story. Convenient one, too — makes everyone sleep better if you believe the monsters stay politely on their side of the wall."
Grevan's gaze snapped to me, sharp as a drawn blade. "They are not stories, my lord. And they are not polite."
Caelia's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Grandfather says the Damned still whisper at the Wall when the moon is full," she said, her tone teasing, though her eyes glinted with curiosity. "Perhaps they call to those who share their flaws."
I gave her a glare that would've wilted a rose. "If I ever hear voices, I'll be sure to send them your way first, sister."
Grevan exhaled — the long-suffering kind of sigh that suggested he'd rather be buried alive than teach us another hour."Enough," he said. "If either of you cared half as much for history as you do for your quarrels, the world might yet survive its heirs."
He turned back to the map, his fingers tracing the black ink line once more."When the first stones of the Banewall were laid after the Sundering," he began again, "there were those who bound themselves to its defense — the Eidbrak. Humans, elves, and Draves alike, who took oaths no sane soul would take. They were not chosen by birth, but by mark."
"Mark?" Caelia asked.
Grevan nodded. "It is said each Eidbrak bore a sign upon their flesh — eyes that burned faintly in the dark, veins that shimmered under moonlight, voices that carried like bells in the mist. The mark was both gift and curse — a reminder of the bond between their blood and the Wall."
He turned his eyes on me. "Tell me, Lord Arlen — what becomes of an Eidbrak who abandons his post?"
I scratched the back of my neck, pretending to think. "Retires with honors and a nice pension?"
Grevan didn't even twitch. "No," he said quietly. "There is no retirement. No return. An Eidbrak who forsakes the Wall is unbound. His name struck from every record. His soul left to wander the grey between life and what waits beyond."
His voice softened, but not kindly. "It is said the Wall itself remembers their betrayal — and takes something in return."
I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of how still the air felt. Even the autumn breeze through the window had died.
Caelia broke the silence first. "Superstition," she said, though not convincingly. "Walls don't remember, Master Grevan. Men do."
Grevan's lips curled faintly — not quite a smile. "Then pray men never forget."
He leaned back, eyes glinting under the candlelight. "Once, there were legions of them. Humans, elves, Draves — the finest warriors, mages, and scholars each kingdom could spare. They took oaths no sane soul would take, bound by blood and mark to the Wall. But time devours honor faster than stone. When war and pride hollowed the old lines, fewer came willingly. The Eidbrak dwindled."
His tone darkened. "So the crowns found… other ways. When loyalty failed, necessity prevailed. The condemned were sent in their place — thieves, deserters, heretics — bound to serve beside the last of the Eidbrak. The exiled guarding the forsaken."
Caelia's quill stilled. "That's monstrous."
"That's practical," I said, before I could stop myself.
Grevan's gaze lifted slowly, his voice like cold iron. "Practicality is the mask of men who fear sacrifice. The Banewall stands because others chose burden over comfort — and because someone must still keep watch where the light no longer reaches."
For a long moment, silence hung between us. Even I didn't have a comeback for that.
He looked down at the map again, fingers ghosting over the black scar that marked the western edge. "They say the Wall hums softer now. That its runes fade. That the stones weep at dawn. The Eidbrak are few, and those sent to aid them rarely return. The kingdoms call it duty. The priests call it penance. The condemned call it a grave."
The torches flickered. For a moment, I could have sworn I heard the wind moan through the tower stones — low and mournful, like something breathing just beyond the walls.
Grevan rolled the map closed with a sound like bone grinding. "Remember this," he said softly. "We built the Banewall to keep the Damned out… but perhaps it was to keep something worse in."
That line hung in the air long after he spoke it.
The bell tolled, cold and sharp.Grevan gathered his scrolls. "Next lesson, we shall study the Fall of the Elven Courts — and the price they paid for forgetting what the Banewall truly guards."
As Caelia scribbled a final note, I found my gaze drifting back to the black line on the map — that thick scar across the world.
And for the first time that morning, I wondered if maybe the Damned weren't the only ones trapped behind something they didn't build.
By the time we left the tower, the sun was already slipping behind the hills — and Master Grevan's words refused to leave with him.
Later that night
The candle burned itself out somewhere past midnight. I hadn't noticed until the last of the wax hissed and the room fell into silence thick enough to hear my own heartbeat. I lay staring at the ceiling beams, tracing cracks that looked too much like rivers on Grevan's old map. Sleep should've come easily — the lesson had been long, dull, and full of the usual self-importance — but the words kept circling back, stubborn as ghosts.
"Perhaps it was to keep something worse in."
I tried to laugh when I first heard it. Now, alone in the dark, it didn't sound quite so funny.
The wind pressed against the shutters, carrying the faint scent of rain. Beyond the manor walls, the night hummed — the kind of low, constant sound that might've been the wind… or something listening.
I rolled over, shut my eyes, and promised myself I wouldn't think about walls or oaths or glowing-eyed ghosts. That promise lasted about ten heartbeats.
I dreamed I was standing on a field of frost. The air shimmered, pale and sharp enough to bite my lungs. Before me, the Banewall rose — not the one from Grevan's scrolls, not the cold sketch of ink and memory, but the real thing.
It stretched across the world like a scar made by gods — black stone veined with faint blue light, tall enough to scrape the clouds. The hum I'd heard in my room was louder here, a living pulse thrumming under my skin. The closer I stepped, the more it felt like the Wall was breathing.
Something moved behind the stone — shadows shifting, faces almost forming, eyes glowing faintly like embers in deep water. I should've run. I didn't.
"Arlen."
The voice came from everywhere — soft, ragged, old as dust. My name sounded wrong in it, like it had been carried too long.
I turned, but the field was empty. Only the Wall remained, whispering in a dozen voices that overlapped and broke apart like waves.
"The mark remembers…""The blood returns…"
My mouth was dry. "Who are you?" I tried to say — but the sound died before it reached the air.
Then I saw the hands. Hundreds of them, pressing from the other side of the Wall — pale and human, fingers splayed against the stone as though begging to be let out. The hum rose to a scream only I could hear.
I reached forward. I didn't mean to. The moment my fingertips brushed the stone, something inside it moved — like cold lightning lancing up my arm. The world went white.
I woke with a shout. The wind outside was gone. My room was silent, except for the frantic pounding in my chest. The moonlight pooled cold across the floorboards, and for a moment, I thought I saw frost clinging to them — melting away as I blinked.
I swung my legs off the bed and froze. A faint light pulsed beneath my skin — thin, silver veins running from my palm to my forearm, glowing like the veins of the Wall itself. I watched them throb once… twice… then fade, leaving only the memory of the burn.
My breath misted. The air was too still. I pressed my hand to my chest and whispered, "Just a dream."
But outside, somewhere far to the west, a deep, distant hum rolled across the night.
And the mark beneath my skin shivered in answer.