The fireplace in the room crackled softly, spreading a cozy warmth that aggressively contrasted with the icy wind battering the castle's glass windows. Nana was lying on her stomach on a large bear skin rug, kicking her legs in the air, her face propped on her hands. Her eyes wandered lazily through the flames.
She was bored. A strange and almost guilty realization for someone living in the epicenter of the "war" against the deadliest beasts on the continent.
Ever since her identity as a witch was discovered and accepted by Prince Roland, Nana had expected her days to be an uninterrupted nightmare of blood, screams, and broken bones.
She had mentally prepared herself to stitch up mutilated militiamen, using her power to close impossible wounds. However, reality had been surprisingly anticlimactic.
Thanks to His Highness's defensive genius, Lord Arthur's ruthless organization, and Sir William's terrifying strength on the wall, the frontline was a practically invincible barrier.
In the last week, Nana had barely needed to use her magic. Her most critical "patient" had been a recruit who sprained his ankle because of his own sneeze, and her biggest patients were the chickens in the courtyard, which the Prince had ordered her to heal just to test her cellular regeneration capabilities. She had healed more chickens and pigeons with her liquid healing than human beings.
— "Peep, peep, peep..." — Nana murmured to herself, laughing softly at her own situation.
But her smile soon turned tender; being bored meant that the people of Border Town were in one piece.
In other words, it meant that fathers were coming home to their children and brothers weren't dying in the snow. If the price for everyone's safety was her own boredom, she would take that bargain a thousand times over.
The heavy oak door to the room creaked open softly. Anna walked in, bringing with her the comforting smell of burnt wood and a serene expression that completely erased the "goddess of war" aura she exuded on the wall.
— "You look about ready to melt into that rug, Nana." — commented Anna, with a gentle smile, closing the door to block the draft.
Nana rolled over and sat up, smoothing her dress skirt.
— "Anna! So glad you came." — Nana sighed, gesturing to the walls. — "I'm so bored I started counting how many stones make up the fireplace. Healing chickens doesn't demand much of my magic power."
Anna let out a light laugh, pulling up a chair and sitting near her friend. She carried a clean piece of parchment and a lump of charcoal in her hands.
— "Boredom is a luxury in the Months of Demons." — said Anna, spreading the paper on the coffee table. — "But I understand. Arthur taught me a game last night in the library; he said it's very popular in the taverns of his homeland, and it's great to pass the time and exercise the mind. Want to learn?"
Nana's eyes immediately lit up. Everything that came from the outsiders, especially Arthur, seemed wrapped in a fascinating mystery.
— "How do you play? Do you need to study to get it?" — she asked, leaning over the table.
— "No, no studying required." — Anna smiled, picking up the charcoal. She quickly drew a structure consisting of a vertical post, a horizontal beam, and a hanging rope. — "The name is Hangman."
Nana blinked, her excitement faltering for a second. — "A... A hangman's noose? That's a bit grim for a parlor game, don't you think?"
— "Lord Arthur has a somewhat peculiar sense of humor." — Anna quickly defended him. She made four small horizontal dashes on the paper, side by side. — "The rule is simple: I thought of a word with four letters. Now you have to guess which letters make up that word. If you get it right, I fill in the space, but if you guess wrong..."
Anna pointed to the macabre drawing. — "I draw a part of the little stick figure's body on the rope. The head, the body, the two arms, and the two legs. If the little figure is hanged before you guess the whole word, you lose."
— "A game of life or death on a piece of paper, that's very much Professor Arthur's style." — Nana agreed, her renewed interest overcoming the grimness. — "Alright! Four-letter word... hmm. I choose the letter 'A'."
Anna smiled, filling in the third dash. _ _ A _ .
— "Got one right off the bat! Off to a good start." — praised the fire witch.
Nana rubbed her hands, feeling confident. — "If there's an 'A', let's try the other vowels. I guess the letter 'E'."
Anna shook her head negatively. With the charcoal, she drew a circle attached to the hangman's rope. The head.
— "Careful, the rope is already around the neck." — Anna teased lightly.
Nana bit her lip, the pressure of the rudimentary game surprisingly high. — "No E? Alright... Letter 'I'!"
Anna drew a vertical line down from the head. The torso.
— "What do you mean?! 'I' is in everything!" — complained Nana, laughing nervously. — "Okay, give me the letter 'O'."
Anna nodded and filled the second space. _ O A _ .
The young healer's mind began to spin. A four-letter word with an 'O' and an 'A' in the middle. She frowned, digging through the mental vocabulary her father had taught her. What was in the forest? What was in the courtyard?
— "'R'!" — she risked a guess.
Anna smiled brightly and placed the letter in the last space. _ O A R .
Nana gasped. The letters screamed the answer in her mind.
— "I know! I know what it is!" — she clapped her hands, excited. — "B! The word is Boar!"
— "You survived the hangman!" — Anna laughed, writing B O A R on the paper. — "You're much faster than I was when I played with him for the first time."
The two girls burst into laughter, the crystalline and innocent sound filling the room and offering an oasis of normalcy and friendship amidst the white nightmare happening outside the walls.
It was just a silly game drawn in charcoal, but to them, it represented the humanity they were fighting not to lose.
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The next morning, the tranquility of the castle chambers did not reach the militia's training courtyard. The newborn sun barely warmed the air, and the ground was covered by a thin layer of slippery frost.
In a corner of the courtyard, away from the main battalion doing push-ups under Iron Axe's shouts, eight militiamen were gathered in a tight circle.
The steam from their breaths mixed in the cold morning air; the mood among them was one of nervous tension, heavily laden with anticipation.
There were Erik, Dergus, Rick, Saldon, Zuler, Hamlin, Svend, and Henry. They were men from different backgrounds—miners, farmers, former patrolmen—but the war had melted them down in the same furnace.
Erik crossed his arms to ward off the cold, his gaze fixed on the distant figure of Commander William, who was supervising the polishing of a crate of spears at the other end of the courtyard.
Erik was a veteran, having been on the first patrol that explored the tunnels of the ancient city. He was saved by William's hands when the venom of mercenary knives almost stole his life, just as it had with Captain Greyhound, Trevor, and Brian.
He had spent the last few days in deep internal conflict.
Greyhound and Brian had followed the traditional path; they had sworn loyalty directly to His Highness, Prince Roland. They would receive the honors, the horses, and the golden titles that accompanied the life of a royal knight.
Prestige called Erik's name too, for the title of Knight was the pinnacle of glory for a common swordsman.
But... every time Erik remembered the darkness of the tunnel, the sound of bones breaking, he knew his soul didn't belong to the defense of Graycastle's crown.
The Prince was the brilliant mind architecting everyone's survival, yes, but Commander William was the armed branch, the Guardian of Border Town who pulled them from the mud and left no one behind. Trevor had understood this before anyone else and was already acting as the personal bodyguard to that benevolent monster.
Erik had finally made up his mind. He would follow his heart, not gold.
— "I froze." — Dergus's trembling voice broke the group's silence, drawing everyone's attention. The young militiaman rubbed his hands compulsively. — "On the wall. When the wolf slipped past the pikes, the animal's legs were inches from my face. I was going to be gutted; I couldn't even raise my weapon. But then... the Commander crossed the walkway in the blink of an eye, smashed the beast with his shield, and even used my spear to 'sweep' the wolves away. He could have left me there as punishment for cowardice, but he didn't! I swore to the old gods that my life is his now."
— "I saw him crush the head of a demonic buffalo the size of a wagon with a single punch out on the plain." — whispered Zuler, his eyes wide in blind admiration. — "If we don't stick to him, we don't deserve to carry these spears."
— "And he knows our names." — pointed out Saldon, thumping his own chest, the swift messenger wearing a proud smile. — "What noble in this damn kingdom knows the names of the miners fighting for him? Commander William is the only one who remembers every single one!"
— "The question is: which one of us is going to talk to him?" — asked Hamlin, kicking the frost off the ground with his old boot. — "We all agree we want to form his elite squad, be his direct followers, but you can't just walk up to a Lord who rips off demonic deer horns with his bare hands and say 'sup, master'."
— "Saldon should talk." — suggested Svend, shoving the messenger. — "You talk the most out of anyone here, and you've already delivered battle reports to him."
— "Are you crazy?" — Saldon's eyes bulged. — "Delivering a report on demonic beasts is my job; now, walking up to him and offering our lifelong loyalty is something else entirely! My tongue would get tied into a knot!"
Henry sighed heavily. — "If we stand here arguing like scared chickens, Iron Axe is going to make us all run with stones on our backs in five minutes."
Erik uncrossed his arms, his posture adopting the rigidity of a resolute veteran. He looked at the seven men around him, feeling the weight of the responsibility and the respect they shared.
— "I'll speak." — declared Erik, his voice firm and deep. — "I'm the oldest here. I was also in the tunnel with him before any of you even knew he was a Lord; we marched together."
The group let out a collective sigh of relief, the tension easing as they straightened their spines.
— "Just follow my lead, don't stutter, and salute like men." — Erik instructed.
The eight militiamen formed an improvised double file and marched with heavy boots across the courtyard.
The rhythmic sound caught the attention of some nearby recruits, but they ignored the gossip.
William was inspecting a new shipment of steel-tipped spears, testing the flexibility of the wood against the ground. Hearing the cadenced approach, he raised his blue eyes and found the troop marching toward him.
The Commander raised an eyebrow, planted the spear in the dirt, and adopted his posture of relaxed authority, arms crossed. Trevor, faithful as a shadow, stood three paces away, resting his musket on his shoulder.
Erik stopped two paces from William, and the entire group clicked their heels, saluting with a fist to the left chest with a thunderous, unison force.
— "Commander William!" — Erik's voice rang out loud, without an ounce of hesitation in the freezing air.
— "Good morning, Erik." — William replied, sketching a faint smile, his System instantly reading the vital statuses and names of the eight men before him, confirming their hidden tactical capabilities. — "Dergus, Rick, Saldon... I see you've gathered quite a group. But what brings the best men of my eastern flank to me outside of formation hours?"
Dergus felt his heart flutter upon hearing his own name coming from his savior; the boy puffed out his chest.
— "My Lord," — Erik began, holding the Commander's gaze. — "You and His Highness gave us dignity, food, and weapons that do not break. His Royal Highness, Prince Roland, has our deepest respect for treating us like men, not like pigs, but we are the ones who stain our boots with blood on the wall..."
Erik swallowed hard but didn't back down.
— "I saw you fight in the dark, My Lord. Dergus saw you protect the life of an unimportant soldier when death was a millimeter away. We all saw you descend that wall alone to face the horde, sparing our lives at the cost of your own risk, and we have reached a consensus."
William's eyes lost their playful tone, locking onto the group with a piercing seriousness. Trevor also straightened his posture, sensing the magnitude of the moment.
— "We didn't come to ask for more rations or days off." — declared Erik, his voice echoing across the courtyard. — "We came to ask to be your vanguard. We want to swear our swords, our spears, and our lives directly to Lord William! We want to be your personal knights, your crushing fist. Wherever you order us to march, there will be no hesitation. If you jump off the wall, the eight of us will jump right after you."
Silence descended over that corner of the courtyard; the morning air seemed to have frozen in anticipation.
William looked from face to face.
He saw the overcome terror in Dergus's eyes, Saldon's loyal agility, the budding bravery in Rick and Zuler, and Erik's iron-forged determination. He didn't need suit-wearing knights and armchair nobles, because that group was forged on a foundation of cement and despair; they were infinitely more valuable than any squad from the capital.
Slowly, William's predator smile returned, this time broader and more dangerous.
— "A Lord who descends walls with ropes doesn't need knights to clean his shiny armor, Erik." — William's voice reverberated like the sound of crossing swords. — "He needs demons who know how to laugh in the face of enemies. If you swear your lives to me, don't expect soft titles! Expect only the frontline of every hell the Months of Demons send."
— "That's exactly where we want to be, Commander!" — shouted the eight militiamen in unison, their voices charged with an infectious war fanaticism.
William extended an open hand. — "Trevor, looks like you're no longer the only madman following my shadow."
Trevor let out a rustic laugh, shaking his head. — "More shoulders to help carry the master's barrels of weapons and shields. I have nothing to complain about."
William clapped Erik on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger slightly, a sign of his brutal strength that served as a personal signature of acceptance.
— "You are my warriors starting today." — decreed William, his eyes sparking with the excitement of war. — "Prepare to sweat blood. Border Town now has a personal squad."
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That same afternoon, the wall sang its usual metallic song.
Trevor was positioned in one of the cement protection gaps.
The north wind lashed his gray cloak, but his level 12 endurance hands held the heavy flintlock musket with the firmness of a rock embedded in the mountain.
The acidic and intoxicating smell of black gunpowder permeated his nostrils, an aroma he had learned to love.
Clack.
He pulled the hammer of the mechanism back with his calloused thumb, feeling the stiff spring yield. His eyes aligned perfectly with the rustic wrought-iron sights at the end of the long dark barrel. Down below, creeping stealthily over the frozen snow near the spear pit, three lesser demonic foxes were trying to bypass the traps.
Trevor held his breath; the world boiled down to the small piece of flint and the imminent spark.
BOOM!
The deafening crack whipped through the air, and the strong stock kicked aggressively against his shoulder, but the bodyguard barely moved, absorbing the weapon's brute recoil with his abnormally robust physicality.
The lead sphere cut through the blizzard and struck the first fox exactly in the center of the skull, shattering the diseased bone and sending the creature flipping over, dead instantly.
Without wasting a second to celebrate, Trevor's fingers moved in a blur rehearsed to exhaustion: he pulled the ramrod, inserted the measured charge of powder, pushed in the wad and the bullet, and withdrew the ramrod. In a mere few seconds that would make the best marksmen of the old century envious, the weapon was cocked and loaded.
He raised the musket again, correcting the angle against the crosswind that his instinct naturally calculated.
BOOM!
The second beast grunted and collapsed in its own malignant blood, its front legs broken by the lead.
Trevor lowered the smoking weapon and blew the excess soot from the flash pan with a sideways smile.
He had mastered Prince Roland's invention to a level that bordered on artistic perfection. His precision, combined with his unshakable physical constitution under stress, made him a born elite sniper.
He looked over at the adjacent tower, where the rhythmic sound of gunshots accompanied his own. There stood Iron Axe. The hunter from the Sand Nation slaughtered the beasts with a terrifying cadence, his deadly eyes and hybrid beast-hunter instincts proving him to be an unparalleled predator.
— "Yeah," — Trevor murmured to himself, caressing the hot barrel of the firearm. — "I am definitely the second-best musket shooter this Town will ever know."
The bodyguard puffed out his chest, feeling the pride of his position. Being second, right behind the legendary desert hunter, was not a demerit; it was a silver crown of immense prestige.
However, his eyes slowly drifted along the upper walkway.
There was Commander William. He wasn't wielding a musket; he was crushing the skull of a bold demonic boar that had managed to climb up using a crevice, relying solely on his armored boots and a deafening laugh.
The colossal strength and absurd speed of that man made him look like a furious hurricane contained in human skin.
Trevor watched the scene, swallowed his own military ego, and shook his head with a resigned smile.
— "On second thought..." — Trevor corrected himself, lowering his head and beginning to reload the weapon once again for the next wave. — "I must only be the third. Because if my master decided to pick up this blessed divine weapon... I'd bet my soul he could shoot the wings off a fly in the middle of a blizzard with his eyes closed!"