The horn woke Alexander before the sun did.
It wasn't the clear, rhythmic call of morning drills—it was jagged, frantic, and wrong. The alarm horn.
Alexander was already on his feet before his mind fully processed it. "Up! Everyone up, now!" he barked, voice sharper than he expected. His men jumped awake, fumbling for armor and weapons. Lionel rolled out of his bunk, still pulling on one boot as he grabbed his shield. Garrick grunted, already half-armored because he slept in his chain shirt.
Darian Rythorn, of course, moved slower—but his eyes were alert, sharp. No sarcasm this time.
"What's happening?" Lionel asked, fastening his belt.
Alexander strapped on his sword. "The horn only means one thing. They're here."
The Fortress Awakens
The courtyard of Redmarch Fortress was chaos. Soldiers streamed toward the walls, shields slamming together, crossbows clattering as bolts were handed out. The air already smelled of smoke—someone had set the outer grassland ablaze to obscure vision.
"Squad four, north wall!" an officer shouted, waving.
Alexander's voice cut through his squad's nerves. "You heard him—move!"
They sprinted, boots pounding on stone, the sound swallowed by the clamor of the garrison arming for war. Alexander's heart hammered but his face stayed set, eyes scanning constantly. Fear later. Focus now.
The First Sight
From the north wall, he saw them: Drovengar warriors, emerging through the early mist like shadows turned flesh. Broad-shouldered men clad in wolf pelts and leather, axes gleaming faintly. They carried heavy shields made of raw timber, scarred from old fights.
"Mother of…" Lionel whispered beside him, gripping his spear tight.
"Hold the wall," Alexander said. His voice was calm, though his stomach knotted. "Roderick, check spacing. Darian, left flank. Garrick, with me on center."
Darian hesitated but obeyed, positioning his shield where Alexander directed. There was no snide comment, no smirk—just quiet tension.
The Clash Begins
The first volley came fast—arrows whistling through the air. Alexander ducked behind a merlon, shield raised. The thud of arrows against wood echoed along the wall, one bolt skidding across the stone near his feet.
"Archers, return fire!" an officer shouted, and the garrison's own bowmen loosed their response.
The Drovengar howled—a wild, primal sound—and surged forward. They carried no siege ladders, only ropes and hooks. A fast raid, not a prolonged siege.
Alexander turned to his squad. "Hook men first—cut ropes before they get on the wall. Everyone else hold shields and stab down if they climb."
Lionel nodded. "Got it."
The first hook clanged against stone. A rope followed, and a Drovengar warrior began to climb, muscles bulging as he scaled with terrifying speed.
"Garrick!" Alexander barked.
The big man didn't hesitate—he swung his shield like a battering ram, smashing the man's grip. The raider plummeted, screaming, landing with a wet crack on the ground below.
Another hook flew. Alexander stepped in, sword flashing as he severed the rope in one stroke.
Darian's Moment
To the left, another raider reached the wall edge, swinging his axe wildly. Darian lunged, shield-bashing the man back, but the raider caught his leg with a wild swing. Darian's footing slipped, and suddenly he was half over the wall, one hand scrabbling for grip.
"Rythorn!" Alexander shouted, already moving.
He grabbed Darian's arm just as the raider lunged again. With his free hand, Alexander thrust forward blindly, feeling his blade sink into flesh. The raider jerked back with a guttural roar, clutching his side, before tumbling off the rope.
Alexander hauled Darian back over the edge, both men collapsing onto the stone.
Darian stared at him, wide-eyed. "…You just—"
"Get up," Alexander snapped, yanking him to his feet. "We're not done yet."
For once, Darian didn't argue.
Chaos on the Wall
The fight turned vicious. Raiders swarmed every side, trying to overwhelm through sheer ferocity. Steel rang on steel, screams mixed with shouts. Alexander's squad held their section, moving almost as one:
Lionel darting forward with quick spear thrusts.
Garrick smashing shields and bodies alike, a human wall.
Roderick calmly issuing spacing corrections even while swinging his sword.
Darian… silent, focused, his eyes flicking often to Alexander.
"Keep them off the ladders!" an officer roared from farther down the wall. "Push them back!"
Alexander's instincts kicked in. He spotted a cluster of raiders focusing their push on one rope hook where a garrison soldier was faltering.
"Lionel, with me! Garrick, cover Rythorn's flank!" Alexander charged, shoulder-slamming into one raider just as he topped the wall. Lionel's spear skewered another, sending him tumbling back.
The Turning Point
Minutes—or maybe hours—blurred as the battle dragged on. At one point, a raider nearly caved Lionel's shield inward, only for Darian to intercept, cutting the attacker down from behind. He didn't say a word, didn't gloat—just nodded once before returning to his position.
Finally, a trumpet call cut through the chaos: the Drovengar were retreating. The raiders pulled back, dragging their wounded, their howls fading into the mist.
The wall was littered with bodies and blood. Alexander stood breathing hard, sword dripping, heart pounding like a drum. Around him, his squad checked each other for injuries—minor cuts, bruises, but no deaths.
The Aftermath
Lieutenant Marcus Hale strode along the wall, surveying the carnage. His gaze landed on Alexander. "Good work holding your sector. Quick thinking on rope cuts, and I saw you save one of your men."
Alexander glanced at Darian, who met his eyes, then looked away.
"Thank you, sir," Alexander replied.
Marcus clapped his shoulder. "Keep this up, and you'll have more than twenty men soon."
Darian's Change
Later, as the squad rested, Darian approached Alexander. His usual arrogance was gone; instead, his voice was quieter.
"You saved my life."
Alexander shrugged. "You're part of my squad. That's what I do."
For a long moment, Darian said nothing, then finally muttered, "…Thanks."
It wasn't an apology, not yet, but it was something.
Lionel grinned from his seat on a crate. "Well, look at that—peace in our time."
"Shut up, Lionel," Darian said, but there was no venom in it.
Evening Reflection
That night, as the fires burned low and the wounded were tended, Alexander sat outside the barracks. His hands still trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of it all.
This was just one raid, he thought. What happens when the real war starts?
He looked at his men—bloody, exhausted, but alive—and felt pride swell in his chest. We held. Together.
Somewhere deep inside, though, he knew this was only the beginning.