Chapter 19 — The Weight of Wind and Stone
The highland winds carried more than chill now.
They carried smoke.
From the ridgelines north of Greywatch Landing, haze curled up in dusky spirals—low fires in the timber country, brush cleared by flame to deny the enemy concealment. Controlled burns, yes. But in this land, nothing ever felt truly under control.
Lorien stood atop the slope east of the Greywatch river crossing. It had no name—just another rise in a country of jagged terrain. But from here, one could see the full sprawl of the valley mouth they had secured. The ash-grey banners of his vanguard fluttered along the rocky riverbank, and beyond that, the first traces of palisade lines under construction—trenches, earthworks, timber logs rolled in from the thinned forest.
What they had seized, they now had to hold.
At his back, Lady Sera of Thornvale joined him. Her boots scraped over gravel. "Scouts returned from the north. The old pass road's still choked. Landslides, overgrowth. No sign of movement yet, but they're watching."
"How far did they press?" Lorien asked without turning.
"Five leagues past the bend. The Emberborn posted markers—coded. We'll get the full report when Serin rides in." Sera shifted her weight, her cloak catching the wind. "They're cautious. The forest's too still."
He exhaled slowly. "It always is before a charge."
Down below, the first of the heavy supply wagons labored up through the causeway—men of the ash legion and Thornvale militia laying corduroy to stabilize the muddy lowlands. Stonecutters had begun quarrying the cliffside east of the river for more permanent walls. There was no illusion of a swift campaign anymore. The war would stretch, coil, and wait like a winter serpent.
He could feel it, growing in the silence between each gust of wind.
"Two weeks since we crossed," Lorien said. "Still no counterstroke."
"They're watching," Sera murmured. "Measuring."
"So are we."
They stood together a moment longer. Then, at the sound of hooves, both turned.
A lean, dark mare rode up the slope—light hooves, silent as dusk. Serin Vale dismounted in a smooth motion, her black hair tucked back under a fur-lined hood. She carried no banner, no escort. Just the glint of two short sabres across her back and the coiled quiet of a veteran killer.
She bowed shallowly to Lorien. "My lord."
"What did you see?" he asked.
"Signs of mass movement west of the ridge. Multiple warbands—local clans conscripted. No true formations, not yet. But they're gathering. Slowly. Someone's consolidating them." Her eyes narrowed. "We tracked signals—cairns with old Thalric symbols. Not border clans. Deeper ones."
"Their bloodlines still remember the civil wars," Sera muttered.
"Exactly," Serin said. "They won't skirmish. Not unless they're certain of breaking us. And they won't come blind. They'll probe first. Light feints, maybe false retreats. Pull us too far in."
"Which we won't allow," Lorien said. He folded his arms. "How many?"
"Hard to say. I'd wager two thousand scattered, maybe three if they've linked up with the hillborn. But the real problem's the land." She turned, pointing northward with a gloved hand. "These forests aren't forgiving. Choke points everywhere. No clean field for cavalry. Too many dead angles for our archers."
"We'll adjust," Lorien said. "We dig deeper, fortify the crossings, clear the flanks."
Serin offered a thin smile. "Already in motion. Your orders from last week are aging well."
He allowed the hint of a nod. "Good. Keep pressure light for now. No full engagements until we've sealed the second ridge."
Sera interjected, "And the western pass?"
Lorien hesitated.
The western pass was still untouched—narrow, winding, less direct. But if taken, it would allow the enemy to flank Greywatch Landing. He had men watching it—local scouts under Captain Herrek—but not enough for a defense.
"Double the patrols," he said. "No forward posts. If they try it, we fall back to the river and break their legs crossing."
Serin bowed again. "I'll see to it."
They watched her remount and vanish down the ridge path without another word.
Sera crossed her arms and tilted her head. "Still not used to her."
"She's not meant to be liked," Lorien replied. "She's meant to survive."
The wind turned colder then. Not with ice, but with the scent of oncoming rain—petricor on stone, a deep scent that sank into the bones. He let it pass over him.
Soon, it would rain again. The roads would turn to mud. And somewhere beyond the trees, someone was gathering blades and fervor, waiting for the right moment to strike.
---
By nightfall, a new watch schedule had been posted.
Lorien spent the last hour of daylight walking the trench line just east of the forward palisade. It was crude still—logs uneven, ditch half-filled with wet stone and root—but it was something. Engineers from Emberfield had arrived two days before with carts of iron nails, sawblades, and clay bricks. Those men now worked alongside conscripts from the Severmarch foothills, neither speaking much to the other.
A young soldier, barely eighteen, dropped his shovel and saluted clumsily as Lorien passed. His hands were blistered and raw.
"Keep digging," Lorien said gently. "You're doing well."
Further down, he found Commander Mirthas overseeing a pile of half-finished stakes.
"They're coming soon," Mirthas said, not turning. "I can feel it in my ribs."
Lorien smirked faintly. "Your ribs are better diviners than the Emberborn."
Mirthas shrugged. "Too quiet. No birds. No game. The forest's gone still."
"We're not the only ones listening."
The commander looked up. "Should we fall back?"
"No. We hold the line. We build. And when they test our walls, we let them see what the north looks like when it's held by something stronger than rot."
A pause.
"You're changing things, my lord," Mirthas said at last.
Lorien didn't answer.
He simply looked north.
Toward the trees.
Toward the silence.
And waited.