Dawn slowly crept over the outpost, its pale light piercing through the thick fog still lingering in the air. The biting cold turned every breath of the outpost's inhabitants into thin wisps of vapor, while dew clung to the rotting wooden fences and withering leaves. The sun struggled to break through the heavy, unmoving clouds, casting only a faint glow over the bleak landscape. In the distance, the faint chirping of forest birds interrupted the silence that draped over the outpost.
Inside the outpost, life stirred slowly. A few Outcasts moved with weary steps, carrying out their daily routines with mechanical efficiency. Some cleaned their weapons, while others merely sat near the dying embers of last night's fire, reduced to smoldering gray ash. On a rough wooden bench, a hardened piece of bread from the previous night remained untouched—a symbol of the harsh, simple life at this forsaken border, a place long forgotten by the outside world.
Alcard had been awake long before dawn. He sat in the corner, his dark cloak wrapped around him to ward off the morning chill. With practiced hands, he inspected his longsword, running a coarse cloth along its blade, ensuring no trace of monster blood remained. Every battle left its mark—on his weapon, on his body, and on his mind. He knew better than anyone that there was no room for complacency in a place like this.
An Outcast, busy adjusting the string on his bow, glanced in Alcard's direction, his voice rough from the cold.
"You leaving right away?"
Without shifting his gaze from his sword, Alcard gave a slight nod. "Oldman is waiting. I need to return as soon as possible."
The Outcast said nothing more. Instead, he lifted a small pot from the dying embers and poured a portion of warm soup into a metal cup, handing it to Alcard. Without a word, Alcard accepted it, sipping slowly. The bland taste spread across his tongue, but it was enough to warm his body. He had never been one for conversation, even with those who shared the same walls and battles.
As Alcard finished his soup, his black horse stood nearby, scraping the dirt restlessly. The animal could still smell the dried blood clinging to his clothes. Rising to his feet, Alcard approached and gently patted its neck.
"Easy now, we'll be leaving soon," he murmured. His hands moved deftly, adjusting the saddle and reins, ensuring everything was secure for the long journey ahead. From the saddlebag, he retrieved a small vial containing Bloody Potion, watching the thick, crimson liquid shimmer under the morning light. Only a few bottles remained—just enough to last for the coming days.
He also checked the pouch of gold coins meant for Oldman, making sure it was still fastened tightly to his saddle. The five bags of gold were more than mere payment; they were the difference between survival and starvation for the Outcasts stationed here. Their supplies were running low, and Alcard knew that every coin mattered.
As he prepared to mount his horse, another Outcast approached, holding a battered old sword. His face was a mixture of exhaustion and unease.
"Have you heard?" he asked quietly. "The monsters from the south are getting bolder. They're getting closer to The Wall."
Alcard met his gaze for a brief moment before replying, his tone devoid of surprise.
"The fewer the guards, the weaker the defense. That much is obvious."
The Outcast let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his sweat-dampened face.
"The lords in Middle Earth don't care. They see The Wall as just some old relic standing on its own. As if we don't need their help…"
Alcard didn't respond, but the look he gave spoke volumes. Without another word, he vaulted onto his black horse. The animal let out a quiet snort, as if sensing the difficult journey ahead.
Before departing, Alcard glanced back and spoke briefly, "Stay sharp."
Simple words, but enough to offer a sliver of reassurance to those left behind. He tugged at the reins, guiding his horse toward the old wooden gate. A few Outcasts watched his departure with a mix of admiration, concern, and the hope that he would return with good news.
As the forest once again swallowed his figure, Alcard kept his gaze forward, his mind already preoccupied with the duties awaiting him at the Central Headquarters—the report on the mutated Cyclops, the outpost's worsening condition, and the exhaustion creeping over all of them. The burden on his shoulders felt heavier than usual, and he knew this journey was only one of many yet to come.
The sound of his horse's hooves left faint imprints on the muddy road as the sky slowly began to brighten.
The world beyond may have forgotten them, but Alcard knew that those at The Wall would never forget their duty.
****