The firepit threw smoke into the dusk, curling into the cool air. Refugees gathered in a circle — Brenn with his staff planted firm in the dirt, Joran with soot still on his arms, Mira close by, and Draven at the edge, quiet as always. Faces were tired, but the eyes no longer looked hollow. They carried something harder now.
Brenn's voice cut into the silence.
"You've run from one roof to the next, one village to the next, and the riders always found you. You can't keep running. You defend the ground under your feet, or you lose it. That's all there is. So speak plain — do we hold the villages, or march for the fort?"
A ripple of voices broke loose.
Sana, an older woman with a shaking hand but steady eyes, leaned forward. "The fort's stone, Brenn. The walls are high, the chains heavy. We can't bring that down, not with hoes and carts. I've seen their marches. I've seen shacklers drive beasts through doors. We can't touch that kind of strength."
Kerr, a young man who'd carried firewood on his back all day, spat into the dirt and leaned forward. "And what then, Sana? Hide in houses and wait till they drag us out? They'll bleed us one by one. Fort Gairn feeds them, sends them, chains us again and again. As long as it stands, the chains will keep coming. You know it."
Sana snapped back, louder than before. "And if you go at the walls, boy, you'll break before the stone does. That's not courage, that's madness."
Marrek, the old refugee, grumbled into the fire. "Chains or no chains, that's a garrison in stone. Farmers don't storm stone. Never have."
Mira's voice cut in, soft but clear. "People will defend their homes, Brenn. That's one thing. But charging walls? That's another. A house you know — a road you walk — people fight for that. But a fort? To most here, it's a tomb waiting."
Joran stood arms folded, soot still streaked along his forearms, hammer smell clinging to him. His voice was blunt. "Stone cracks same as iron if struck enough times. But don't fool yourselves — I can't hammer spears out of air. Steel is thin. Too thin. I've got cart-iron, plow-iron. Nothing more."
The crowd stirred again, voices pulling both ways — some echoing Kerr, others Sana, more muttering low.
Then Draven spoke. He hadn't moved until now, but his voice carried.
"No assault. Not yet. But hear me plain. As long as Fort Gairn stands, the chains will keep coming. Defend the villages, if that's what you choose. You'll still face them again. And again. And again."
The fire crackled. No one spoke after him.
That night, shadows moved among the wagons. Disguised scouts walked like refugees, their words slipping into ears as soft as water.
One leaned toward Kerr as they passed a line of sleeping children. "If the fort falls, the border is free. Everyone knows that. A wall falls, and chains break with it."
Another knelt by Sana while fetching water. "Chains don't march without a master. Break the fort, you break the chain. Simple as that."
Sana didn't answer, but later by the fire, she repeated the words. Others nodded as if it had been their own thought all along.
At a wagon's edge, Ryl crouched, scratching coded lines onto bark with charcoal. Another scout watched her hand.
"Villagers march in rows now, not as a mob," Ryl muttered as she wrote. "They speak of Fort Gairn. Chainbreaker pushes them forward without saying the word."
Morning brought drills. Brenn strode along the rows, staff slamming dirt with each step.
"Shields high, tools forward, feet steady. Don't swing wild, hold the line. You break once, the riders cut through. And they don't stop — they don't stop till you're all down."
A row faltered. Brenn struck the dirt hard.
"Again. No gaps. You hold for your neighbor, your neighbor holds for you. A line's only as strong as the one who breaks it. Don't be that fool."
Sweat ran, but the rows held longer with each pass.
By the forge, Joran hammered bent cart-iron, sparks bursting against the dark.
"Steel's too thin, too thin," he grumbled between blows. "Cart scrap, plow scrap — I'll shape blades, but they won't last. Not long." He paused, lowering the hammer, muttering to himself. "If the book can write steel, maybe it can forge more than iron…
He ran a thumb across the rough spine of the blade and muttered louder, "An oath can be hammered same as iron." A few heads turned; no one laughed. The forge fire hissed, as if agreeing.
maybe more than fire alone."
By dusk, Draven called a small squad. They gathered with farm tools in hand, the fire casting long shadows.
"Stand steady," Draven told them. "You fight together, or you fall together. No chain, no mark. Only choice."
They nodded, shoulders tense. A faint hum stirred through the camp. Threads of light shimmered between them, lingered, then faded. Their breathing fell in rhythm, stronger than before.
Eda, a girl no older than fifteen, blinked. "It feels lighter… like I can keep going."
Kerr grinned, hefting his tool. "Not lighter — stronger. Like my arms are set solid. Like the line itself holds me up."
Nearby whispers rose.
Sana leaned to Marrek, half-afraid. "What did he do to them? Was it some blessing?"
Marrek's voice was gruff, uneasy. "No mark, no rod. Just words. Still… look how they stand. Look how they breathe."
Mira glanced at Draven, her voice soft. "They don't understand it, but they feel it. So do I."
Draven stayed silent, eyes on the fading shimmer.
Inside Fort Gairn, a scout knelt before Malrik Dorn.
"The villagers march in ranks now, sir. Not as a mob. Their smith makes blades. Their elder drills them. Even the children walk in rows."
Dorn stood at the wall slit, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't speak at once. Finally, his voice came.
"They are not villagers anymore. They are becoming an army."
The scout lowered his head.
"Strengthen the outer patrols," Dorn ordered. "Keep the garrison tight. Do not spend them yet. The Chainbreaker will step where I want him to — and when he does, we'll see if chains can hold against stone."
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