The carriage wheels slowed over the soft earth as they approached the ridge, the gentle sway stopping with a final creak. Ser Roderic stepped down first, boots crunching lightly against the grass. He gave the area a quick scan—instinctively, habitually—before opening the carriage door.
"Lady Heather," he announced.
Erika stepped out carefully, one gloved hand on the doorframe—and then she froze.
Not in fear.
But in awe.
Spread before her was a wide field of soft, sunlit grass. Wildflowers bobbed in the wind, pale blues and yellows painting the ground like scattered stars. A single enormous tree stood proudly near the ridge, branches heavy with lush green leaves that shimmered under the open sky. And just beyond it, a simple wooden fence marked the edge.
The entire valley unfolded beneath her, the small town they'd explored earlier nestled comfortably in its cradle of hills. The morning light made every rooftop glow faintly.
Erika exhaled—quiet, breathless.
"…It's beautiful."
Catalina stepped down after her, a faint smile already tugging at her lips the moment she saw Erika's face. There was a softness in her gaze—something pleased and almost… proud.
"Do you like it?" Catalina asked gently.
Erika nodded, too breathless to offer more than, "It's… amazing."
Erika took slow steps toward the fence, her fingers brushing the wood as she leaned forward slightly, taking everything in.
Is the world… always been this wide?
In the capital everything was stacked, crowded—buildings pressing close, people filling every street.
I always felt so… small.
But here—
The sky is huge. The land is endless. Everything looks so… big.
Roderic stood behind them, silent and respectful, leaving the ladies enjoy the moment.
Catalina moved closer, her steps soft over the grass. She came to stand just slightly behind Erika, her presence warm and steady. Then, with surprising gentleness, she rested both of her hands on Erika's shoulder.
Erika stiffened, startled by the touch.
Catalina's voice came soft behind her ear.
"From here… you can see the northern mountains."
Her hand guided Erika lighty—turning her shoulders so she faced the far horizon.
"And there," she added, her fingers steady and warm, "that faint line cutting across the base of the range?"
Erika squinted.
At first it seemed like nothing but a faint silver scratch across the land.
But then she realized—
It wasn't small.
It wasn't a trick of light.
It was enormous. So enormous that even from this distance still visible from such far distances, it carved a clear line across the world.
"The wall…" Erika breathed.
Catalina nodded, her fingers still resting lightly on her shoulder.
"You've never seen it before?"
"No," Erika admitted softly. "Not even once."
She stared at the distant wall, awe swelling in her chest, making her heart feel too full.
How can something that far away still be that big?
The capital always felt like the entire world to me… but it's nothing compared to this.
Maybe… maybe I've been living in a box without realizing it.
I feel… taller. Bigger.
Like my life is more than what I thought it was.
Catalina watched her expression shift, watched the realization bloom across Erika's features.
And she smiled—quiet, knowing, soft.
The ridge, the valley, the wall and its northern mountains in the distance… Everything was wide.
But nothing felt wider than the moment between them.
Far from the quiet ridge where Catalina and Erika admired the world stretching wide beneath them, the North was waking to something else entirely.
Commander Aldoustan rode at the front of the column, his horse's hooves crunching through the snow-laden ground. Behind him, Duke Veynar and the rest of the company followed in disciplined silence, their breaths rising in pale clouds that drifted into the morning fog.
After hours of travel, the shadow of the great Wall finally rose into view. Even half-hidden by mist, it loomed like a slumbering beast—iron and stone stacked high enough to vanish into the grey sky.
Aldoustan let out a slow breath.
"Finally," he murmured, adjusting his reins. "We're here. Lord Darius should have received the gliswing I sent ahead and the danger that awaits us."
He raised a hand and one of the knights trotted forward.
"Signal them," Aldoustan ordered.
"They should be preparing the gates."
The knight lifted the horn to his lips and blew. A long, deep note rippled across the open field, echoing against the Wall.
And then—
Silence.
No grinding gears.
No shifting metal.
No distant voices shouting orders from the ramparts.
Aldoustan frowned. "Again."
The horn sounded once more, louder, sharp enough to sting the air. But the massive metal doors remained still, as lifeless as the frozen ground beneath them.
Duke Veynar's expression darkened.
"That shouldn't be happening," he said. "The gate watchers change shifts every hour. Someone always responds, even in blizzards they respond."
His gaze drifted upward, squinting against the thick fog that draped the Wall's upper edge. For a moment, everything was still—the world muted by snow and cold.
Then the wind pushed the fog aside.
Veynar's eyes widened. He straightened violently.
"Commander Aldoustan!" he barked. "Look—above!"
The shout snapped every man to attention. Helmets tilted back as the company lifted their heads toward the towering height of the Wall.
A collective shock broke through their ranks.
Where the upper section of the Wall should have been solid, smooth iron reinforced by layers of stone, there was instead a violent crater—a jagged wound torn straight through its structure. Snow dusted the broken edges, falling from the shattered metal like ash.
Aldoustan felt his stomach twist.
"Fucking hell that's…Impossible," he breathed. "That wall is ten meters thick."
whatever force had been strong enough to carve straight through it was something no mortal men can do.
But the truth was undeniable. The crater—jagged, massive, impossible—was proof. Whoever had attacked the Wall had come before them.
Aldoustan's grip on his reins tightened. The dread that had been simmering since Captain Rhun's gliswing report boiled over. The thing they had been avoiding—the Dreadknight—was here.
It had found the Wall first.
Veynar swallowed hard, voice tight. "The Dreadknight… it's already inside the wall…"
The riders exchanged no words after that. The northern defenses, long considered impregnable, had been struck before anyone could prepare. And in that silence, a single terrifying realization settled over them: they were no longer moving to defend the North—they were racing against a threat that had already arrived.
Commander Aldoustan reined in his horse, eyes narrowing at the damaged wall. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his thoughts, before asking, his voice low but urgent.
"Duke Veynar… are there any other ways to reach the other side? Ways that won't throw us all straight into death, should whatever lies beyond already be waiting?"
Veynar's jaw tightened. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, cold and unrelenting. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Then, finally, he spoke, voice measured but grim.
"There is… a way. A path that won't draw attention. If we take it, we may yet reach the other side unseen."
As they rode, the urgency pressing them forward, Veynar led the way along the hidden path that promised safety—or at least, a chance at it.
From this distance, the scene beyond the gate unfolded in dreadful clarity.
The ground was littered with the dead—men strewn across the cracked earth, their armor dented and torn, their bodies horrifically mutilated. Smoke and ash drifted lazily over pools of dark crimson, the smell of iron and fire hanging heavy in the air. Craters pocked the terrain, as though massive rocks had fallen and torn the land apart.
The devastation was inhuman. Deep, sweeping gashes scarred the earth, impossible for mortal men to create. Decapitated bodies lay scattered, silent witnesses to the violence that had occurred.
From the chaos came the harsh clang of metal—swords meeting with unstoppable force. There, amidst the carnage, stood the black-armored figure of the Dreadknight, pressed back but unbowed, facing a force as relentless as his own.
Closer now, a figure emerged through the turmoil, breathless but unbroken. Lord Tristan Igor Darius—hand of the emperor—stood firm, bloodied and battered, his dented armor a testament to the fight he had endured. Behind him, the remaining knights rallied, exhausted and strained, yet they held their ground.
Beyond them, the secondary wall loomed—a last line of defense. They were the last line, holding the ridge, the gate, the exit of the dukedom—and with it, the only path to the south.
The sheer scale of the destruction, the sound of battle, and the impossibility of their task pressed down on all who remained. And yet, they fought. They had no choice. The first wall had failed, and the fate of the dukedom now rested on this desperate stand.