Lord Tristan Igor Darius stood at the center of the line, boots planted deep into the fractured earth, his shield braced forward as the Dreadknight's blade crashed against it with enough force to rattle the bones of every man nearby. The impact sent a violent shock through his arms, traveling straight into his shoulders, but Darius did not yield an inch.
"Hold," he ordered, voice raw but steady. "Do not break."
The Imperial Knights moved as one.
Two stepped in immediately, blades flashing from either side, striking low and high in perfect synchronization. A third knight slid into position behind Darius, reinforcing the line, shield locking against shield. Their movements were precise—measured, practiced to the point of instinct. Every step had purpose. Every strike was meant to control space, not chase victory.
The Dreadknight answered with brute inevitability.
Its sword carved downward in a wide arc, the sheer weight of it forcing the ground to split where it landed. One imperial knight was thrown back by the shockwave alone, skidding across the blood-soaked earth, armor screaming as it scraped against stone. Another caught the edge of the blow and went down hard, gasping, blood spilling through the cracks in his breastplate.
"Rotate!" Darius roared.
The wounded were pulled back instantly. Fresh shields replaced them without hesitation.
The Duke's remaining men—northern soldiers hardened by cold and war—watched in stunned silence.
They had fought for years.
They had bled for the Wall.
But they had never seen men fight like this. The Imperial Knights did not rush.
They did not falter.They did not scream.
They absorbed the monster.
Darius drove his shield forward, slamming into the Dreadknight's chest with enough force to stagger even something that massive. His sword followed immediately, thrusting into a joint beneath the blackened armor. Sparks burst on impact—but the blade did not penetrate.
Still, it stopped the advance.
For half a breath.
"That's it," Darius muttered through clenched teeth.
"Stay with me."
The Dreadknight retaliated with a backhanded strike that shattered a shield outright. Metal folded like paper. The knight behind it was flung aside, body twisting unnaturally before hitting the ground. He did not rise.
The line tightened.
The remaining Imperial Knights closed ranks, stepping over the fallen without pause, faces grim, eyes burning with something harder than fear.
Determination.
Blood ran freely now—down greaves, across frozen dirt, soaking into the cracks torn open by the earlier impacts. Breath came heavy and ragged. Arms trembled. But no one stepped back.
And slowly—inevitably—the Duke's men began to move.
At first, just a few.
A northern spearman advanced, hands shaking, then steadied himself. Another followed. Then another.
Shields lifted.
Weapons raised.
They filled the gaps.
Not because they were ordered to.
But because they could not watch men stand alone against that thing.
The Dreadknight turned its helm slightly, as if registering the change. Its presence pressed down on them like a physical weight, something ancient and hateful clawing at their resolve.
It struck again.
Darius caught the blow head-on.
The impact drove him to one knee, the ground exploding beneath him—but he stayed upright, shield locked, muscles screaming as he forced himself back to his feet.
"Still here," he growled.
A faint hum rippled through the air.
So subtle it could have been imagined.
Against Lord Darius's chest, hidden beneath layers of dented armor and blood-soaked cloth, the gliswing stone resting in his pocket pulsed—once.
No sound followed it. No warmth strong enough for mortal men to notice. The knights around him fought on, unaware, senses drowned in steel and pain.
But the Dreadknight felt it.
It paused—not in retreat, but in recognition.
The Dreadknight recoiled. Not from the blade. Not from the line of men.
But from the light.
Darius noticed the hesitation.
He did not waste it.
"Now!" he shouted.
Every remaining knight struck at once.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. The battlefield roared back to life as men hurled themselves forward, pouring everything they had into a single, desperate push. The Dreadknight staggered—only a step—but it was enough to buy them space.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to survive.
For now.
Darius stood tall once more at the front of the line, shield cracked, armor dented, blood dripping freely from beneath his helm.
They had not beaten it.
They had not stopped it.
But they were holding it.
And somewhere far beyond the Wall—far beyond blood and steel—a certain someone who was well aware had felt the disturbance.
The stray had been found.
"I see you…"
The words left Catalina's lips barely above a whisper.
Beside her, Erika startled, freezing mid-bite, honey threatening to drip from the sweet bread cradled in her hands. She blinked, eyes flicking toward Catalina as the two lay sprawled lazily beneath the wide shade of the tree, the grass cool beneath them. A short distance away, Ser Roderic stood watch, posture relaxed but alert, giving them just enough space to forget he was there.
"M-my lady…?" Erika said, uncertain. She glanced around, then back at Catalina, a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips.
"I mean— I can see you too, you know."
Catalina stiffened.
Just slightly.
She turned her head, realizing too late what she had said aloud, and let out a quiet breath.
"Ah— forgive me, Lady Heather," she said smoothly. "It seems I spoke my thoughts aloud.."
Erika relaxed, though curiosity lingered in her expression. She laughed softly, shaking her head.
"Oh, don't apologize. You just… startled me a little."
She hesitated, then added honestly, "You were looking so intently—like you were staring right through me. Or maybe at something behind me."
Her fingers tightened around the bread for a moment before she smiled again, trying to brush it off.
"It was… intense," she admitted, half-teasing, half-uneasy.
Catalina smiled back—gentle, composed.
Erika chewed thoughtfully on her honey-filled pastry, her eyes following the soft sway of the grass and the scattering of wildflowers. She noticed a particular bloom—a purple hue tucked near a small mound of earth. Swallowing carefully, she set the bread down and smiled.
"My lady… I'll just be right back," she said softly, brushing her gloved hand over her skirts.
"I want to see these flowers up close."
Catalina's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she inclined her head slightly.
"Of course. Take your time," she replied, voice calm, almost distant.
Erika stepped a few paces away, crouching to admire the delicate petals. Catalina watched her from behind beneath the shade of the massive tree
Catalina's gaze drifted north while Lady Heather was distracted from the flowers. Slowly, she raised her arm, hand stretching forward. In that instant, her eyes bloomed into jeweled gold like sunlight refracted through crystal.
Far to the north, beneath the northern stronghold, narrow tunnels forced men to hunch and shuffle forward. Duke Veynar led cautiously, Commander Aldoustan close behind.
"How do you know this way?" Aldoustan asked, his voice tight with caution.
"This must be some secret northern exit."
Veynar glanced around the cramped tunnel, frowning.
"This passage has been abandoned for years… it should have been blocked at the far end. Perhaps this is how they—" His words faltered as he scanned the darkness.
"I don't know how they found it. We'll see at the end."
A sudden twitch caught Aldoustan's attention. Something inside his satchel moved. Then a soft glow began to pulse, bathing the walls in an unearthly light.
"What is that…" Veynar murmured. "Commander, was that… the gliswing?"
Aldoustan's eyes narrowed.
"Yes..But it's never done this before—"
Before Aldoustan could finish, the stoned gliswing slipped free, floating ahead. It lit the tunnel brighter than torches ever could.
"What in the—!.. Get back here!" Aldoustan shouted.
But the gliswing darted aside with surprising agility, evading him. Veynar lunged, hands grasping at empty air, and the stone shifted just out of reach, brushing against walls and ceiling as it moved with uncanny precision.
The two exchanged a frustrated glance.
"It's… moving on its own," Veynar said quietly, voice low.
"And it's… avoiding us." Aldoustan said, confused.
"Do… do these things have a mind of their own, Commander?" Veynar asked cautiously, eyes following the gliswing as it floated ahead, swaying slightly, moving with an eerie purpose.
Aldoustan shook his head, uncertain. "No… they don't." He studied the stone, brow furrowed
"The gliswings… they were given to us for this very mission," Aldoustan muttered, his eyes fixed on the floating stone ahead.
"No one can control them except… us."
His gaze sharpened, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Because… no one can command these things, give them instructions, except… Rhun, Lord Darius, myself…"
He paused, a sudden realization striking him like a dagger.
He faltered, His eyes widened as the final realization hit him.
"And… Her."
Above the tunnels, beneath the broken sky, the line still held.
Lord Tristan Igor Darius stood at its center, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. His arms burned. His shield felt heavier with every second that passed, its rim warped and cracked from repeated impacts. Around him, the remaining Imperial Knights and northern soldiers struggled to draw breath, boots sliding against blood-slick stone, armor hanging loose and dented.
Across from them, the Dreadknight waited.
Its blackened armor was dented but unbroken. No blood marked its frame. No rise or fall of breath betrayed fatigue. It stood with its massive blade resting at its side, unmoving—patient—like a thing that knew time itself would eventually betray them.
How much longer… Darius thought grimly.
He did not know if he could hold the line much longer. His body screamed for rest, for release. Every strike was slower than the last, every block carried by stubborn will alone. But retreat was impossible.
Not yet.
Aldoustan will come, he told himself. He has to.
His thoughts drifted—unwanted—to the gliswing stone resting against his chest, tucked beneath blood-soaked armor. Aldoustan's gliswing. The last sign the commander had been alive when the message came through.
Are you still breathing out there… Darius wondered.
Or did that message come from a dying man?
The thought tightened something in his chest.
Then—something pulled.
Darius stiffened.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was a strange, insistent tug, as if something beneath his armor was trying to claw its way free. His hand moved instinctively to his chest.
A faint glow bled through the seams of his breastplate.
His breath caught.
The gliswing…?
But how—
Before he could finish the thought, the stone slipped free from his pocket, drifting upward as if released from an invisible grip. It hovered between him and the Dreadknight, glowing softly, lazily, like a will-o'-wisp unconcerned with the battlefield around it.
The men behind him froze.
No one spoke. No one moved.
They watched the small, radiant stone float in the air, its light pale but undeniable against the soot and ash.
Then Darius saw it.
The Dreadknight moved.
Not forward.
Back.
Just one step—but it was unmistakable.
Its grip on the sword tightened. The blade rose slightly, angling into a guarded stance. The monstrous helm tilted, as if the thing within were staring not at the men… but at the stone.
Afraid.
Darius felt a chill crawl up his spine.
…Is this.. What I think it is..? he thought, eyes locked on the gliswing as it pulsed faintly in the air.
And for the first time since the battle began, the monster before them did not feel inevitable.
It felt wary.