Aldric adjusted the straps of his armor, rolling his shoulders as he looked over the map he had drawn in the dirt from memory, replicating what he had seen in Astradan's war room. His fingers traced the engraved lines of The Wall, following the path to its final stronghold—The Gate.
"We're heading here," he said finally, looking up at Lysara. "The last fortress of the Wall."
She arched an eyebrow. "We're not going to be able to hold a fortress by ourselves."
Aldric shook his head.
"I don't intend to fight a battle yet. I want to see what's left of the defences."
He tapped the spot on the map where the scouts had marked the last known resistance.
"The report from Astradan said The Gate still stands, but its leadership marched to aid us at the battle of Luminia. So I don't know what remains." He exhaled, his gaze hardening. "If there's anyone left holding the line, I need to see it for myself."
Lysara crossed her arms. "And if there's nothing left?"
Aldric's jaw tightened. "Then we'll decide what to do when we get there."
Dralore and Syn were more than ready to take flight. The Dragles seemed restless, sensing their riders' urgency. They launched into the air with powerful beats of their wings, quickly gaining altitude as they left the mountain sanctuary of Astradan behind.
The journey southward was tense. They flew high, avoiding Karnaxian scouting parties, their eyes constantly on the terrain below. The land beneath them bore the scars of war—burnt fields, abandoned villages, roads once travelled now overgrown with nature reclaiming what had been lost.
The Wall stretched across the land like an ancient scar, its weathered stone defying time itself. Aldric had read of its history, but seeing it from above was different. It was a last stand given form, a barrier that had once divided the free lands from what lay beyond.
And now, at the very end of it, stood The Gate.
When they arrived, it was not what Aldric expected.
The fortress still stood, its massive stone walls intact, the great iron portcullis lowered, but there was no order to the camp outside it. Instead of hardened warriors, they saw a leaderless rabble—farmers, villagers, hunters, and scattered remnants of those who had refused to kneel to Karnax's forces.
No banners flew in unison.
No single god's sigil marked their armor.
They had gathered here, but not as one.
They were followers of many gods, brought together by nothing but desperation and survival.
Lysara let out a slow breath beside him as they circled overhead. "This isn't an army."
Aldric frowned. "No. But it might be the only thing standing between Karnax and the rest of the country."
The moment Aldric and Lysara descended toward The Gate on their Dragles, the entire camp erupted into chaos.
Men and women scrambled for weapons, some shouting warnings, others simply staring in open fear. No one here had seen Dragles before, and to them, the sight of two massive winged beasts descending from the sky could mean only one thing—an attack.
The moment their feet touched the ground, the tension spiked.
People clutched rusted weapons, half-drawn bows aimed in their direction. Whispers of spies, demons, and Karnaxian trickery rippled through the crowd.
Then they saw Lysara.
And it got worse.
A few men at the front tensed immediately, their expressions twisting into something more than fear—anger, disgust, suspicion.
Aldric saw it coming a second before it happened.
A group of foolhardy men rushed forward, weapons raised—axes, clubs, whatever they could grab.
Lysara didn't flinch.
Aldric's voice cut through the air like steel.
"Enough!"
The sheer force of his shout stopped them cold.
The moment stretched too long, the crowd hesitating, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Aldric stepped forward, his posture rigid, his gaze hard as tempered iron.
"We are not your enemies," he said, his voice even, carrying across the uneasy crowd. "We have come to see what remains of this fortress. To see who still holds the line." His eyes swept over them, his grip steady on his sword. "And if you'd rather waste your strength attacking the people who have come to help, then you might as well throw yourselves at Karnax's army now and get it over with."
The silence that followed was thick, uneasy.
Then, someone finally spoke.
"The leaders are inside, near the main gate," an older woman said, her voice hoarse but steady.
Aldric nodded. Progress.
Before moving, he glanced toward the Dragles. "Someone see to them. Give them some meat. But don't get too close, or you might become the meat."
A few of the villagers paled.
Lysara sighed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Stop scaring them."
Aldric smirked, but didn't argue.
They made their way toward the fortress, but the journey was slow.
Not because of resistance.
Because Lysara kept stopping.
At every turn, she found someone injured—a boy clutching a badly bandaged leg, an old man with a festering wound, a woman too weak from infection to stand.
Aldric had seen it before—when she fixed her gaze on suffering, she couldn't just walk past it.
So, he waited.
Every time she dropped to her knees, whispering quiet prayers of healing, Aldric kept watch, keeping the uneasy villagers at bay while Lysara did what she couldn't ignore.
By the time they reached the gate, word of them had already spread.
As Aldric stepped into the war room, his eyes immediately caught familiar faces—faces he hadn't seen in a year, faces that didn't belong in a command room but in a training yard, still carrying wooden swords and listening to their masters drill discipline into them.
Former squires.
It seemed Sir Danton had not been the only knight to try and save his apprentice.
But unlike Aldric, most of these squires were young, barely trained. Boys who had never been meant to see the front lines, now standing in the remnants of a fortress they had no business defending.
Before he could dwell on it, a voice cut through the room, firm and carrying weight.
"Aldric. I haven't seen you since you were this high." As the man gestured to about his mid-chest.
He turned to face the man who had spoken.
An older knight, scarred and hardened by time, but still standing. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
A retired knight.
Sir Gelm
That was rare. Most knights didn't retire—they either died in battle or kept fighting until their bodies could no longer hold a sword.
The man approached, offering a slight nod. "Sorry to hear about Danton."
Aldric's chest tightened.
The Sir Gelm continued, his voice low. "I knew him when he was just a squire. He was a reckless little bastard." A small, tired smirk ghosted over his face. "Always thought he'd die leading a charge, not holding a line."
Aldric couldn't find the words to respond.
The older knight studied him carefully, then exhaled. "Well? What news do you bring?"
Aldric cleared his throat. "Do you have a quill and some paper?"
The knight nodded and led them to a small, candlelit chamber, where a worn table was strewn with reports, half-sketched battle lines, and scouting logs.
Aldric took the offered quill, then began drawing.
He let his memory take over, his hand steady as he replicated the map he had memorized from Astradan. Every Karnaxian movement, every open Tear, every remaining stronghold or known safe haven.
When he was finished, he set the quill aside and began recounting everything they had seen on the journey here.
The room fell silent as the older knight and his commanders took in the information, the weight of it settling over them.
This wasn't just another skirmish.
The silence in the room stretched, heavy with thought as the men processed the map Aldric had drawn. Their grim expressions spoke louder than words—they had no plan.
And that was when Lysara decided to speak.
Her voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "This battle will come to The Gate whether you're ready for it or not."
Several of the men flinched at the sound of her voice, as if suddenly realizing she was there. Others stiffened, hands instinctively shifting toward their weapons, as if forgetting she had walked in beside Aldric.
She ignored them.
"What's worse is that from what I see, you're not preparing for it at all." Her silver eyes swept across the room, her gaze sharp, unforgiving. "You're sitting here, squabbling over reports and waiting for someone to tell you what to do, instead of taking action."
The Sir Gelm exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And what would you have us do? We can't even get these people inside the walls. The lords on the other side refuse to give us permission to open the Gate. Without their say, we can't—"
"Can't?" Lysara's tone was sharp, incredulous. "Are you waiting for a written invitation? A battle doesn't wait for permission. Neither should you."
One of the younger squires hesitated before speaking up. "Even if we could move them inside, we don't have the resources to support them. We barely have enough food and supplies for the men already here. And we don't have the manpower to hold against a siege"
Lysara let out a sharp breath of frustration, shaking her head. "You're not thinking."
She turned back to the older knight, her tone commanding. "How many farmers do you have out there? Villagers? Hunters? You see them as mouths to feed, but they're also hands to work. You should have them building fortifications. You should be digging trenches to break cavalry charges. You should be using any old cloth and rags you can find to make sandbags."
The room was silent.
Lysara scowled, clearly unimpressed. "If this is the best leadership you can offer, then this place is already a grave."
The old knight's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.
Aldric, who had remained quiet throughout her assessment, crossed his arms. He wasn't about to defend them. She was right.
Lysara turned to him suddenly.
"Go and open the Gate."
Aldric's brow lifted slightly. "You want me to—"
"If they won't do it willingly, do it by force." Her silver eyes locked onto his. "I don't care if you have to break the damn lock. Those people are getting inside."
The old knight exhaled sharply. "That's not your decision to make."
Lysara met his gaze without hesitation.
"It is now."
Aldric wasn't going to stand around and debate this. He had spent enough time watching leaders hesitate, and he knew better than to argue with Lysara when she gave an order like that.
Without a word, he turned and exited the room, striding through the half-formed camp. As soon as he stepped outside, he whistled sharply.
The sky rippled with the sound of beating wings, and Dralore descended, landing heavily just ahead of him. The massive Dragle ruffled his feathers, tilting his head as if sensing Aldric's mood.
"Come on," Aldric muttered. "We might need some muscle for this one."
Dralore huffed, but didn't object.
Aldric mounted up and launched into the air, heading straight for the fortress gate.
The guards on the other side saw him coming and immediately stepped forward, blocking the gate from within. Their weapons weren't raised, but their postures were firm, defiant.
One of them, a burly man in chainmail, called up, "The Gate remains closed! Our lords have forbidden us from opening it!"
Aldric exhaled sharply, barely containing his frustration. Cowards. Bureaucrats. Their people were dying, and they wanted permission?
"I've had enough of this," he muttered.
He considered breaking the gate down entirely, but they'd need it soon, functional and intact.
So instead, he skipped it entirely.
With a sharp tug on Dralore's reins, Aldric soared upward, pulling high over the towering walls and angling down in a sharp descent, crossing over the Gate in a single, effortless motion.
The guards barely had time to react before he landed inside.
They rushed him immediately, hands reaching for their weapons, but Aldric had no patience left.
"Try to stop me, and I'll feed you to my Dragle," he growled, voice low, unrelenting.
Dralore, as if sensing an opportunity, let out a deep, predatory rumble, tilting his head toward the nearest guard. His beak snapped once—far too close to their legs.
The guards froze, uncertain whether he was playing along or genuinely considering the meal.
Aldric stared them down, waiting.
It took only a few seconds before one of them made the smart choice.
"The winch," one of the younger men muttered, stepping back.
Another hesitated before giving the order.
The heavy mechanisms of the gate groaned as the massive iron portcullis slowly lifted, opening the way to the waiting camp outside.
Aldric didn't wait for thanks. He turned Dralore sharply and took to the skies once more, heading back to the camp.
By the time he returned, everything had already changed.
The camp was no longer a leaderless mess of frightened civilians. Lysara had taken command, and people were moving with purpose.
The able-bodied were already at work, digging trenches, setting up makeshift defenses, reinforcing the weakest points of the outer perimeter.
The infirmed and wounded were being escorted through the newly opened gate, guided by those who were too old or young to fight.
Lysara stood at the center of it all, directing with sharp, efficient commands, her silver eyes scanning the movements with a strategist's precision.
Aldric landed beside her, dismounting as she turned to him.
"You took your time," she said dryly.
Aldric smirked. "Had to make a point."
She rolled her eyes, but there was approval hidden beneath the exasperation.