The bell had rung. But no horn answered. No banners were raised. No marching feet rallied behind a commander.
since no soldiers remained.
Ethan watched the first group of volunteers arrive at the cratered patch of ground behind the town hall, which had once been a training yard. They weren't fighters. They were traders holding rusty blades, farmers with rough hands, and kids feigning bravery in front of their parents.
This was not an army.
This was the town.
Garren arrived next, dragging a cart of dull tools and scrap metal, his face as grim as the morning frost. Behind him came his apprentice, small but determined, clutching a short sword dulled by years of chopping roots.
Ethan nodded in their direction and looked out at the expanding group. Yes, he saw fear, but more significantly, he saw determination.
Once, under the late baron's crest, the town had proudly stood behind a garrison of devoted soldiers. However, that was years ago.
The fall hadn't come with blood and fire, but with fever.
The baron had become ill. Some whispered curses, some poison. However, it made no difference. The once-powerful barracks became plague houses as the disease spread through the ranks. The guards ran away out of desperation rather than cowardice. A few made an attempt to go back to their houses. Others disappeared into the forest. Not many made it out alive.
No one ever again manned the walls. The gates were rusted. The raiders came and went. The sound of orderly footsteps was forgotten by the town.
Ruins and a people too accustomed to living alone were what Ethan had inherited.
The first day of training was chaos. People arrived with everything from broom handles to fireplace pokers. A baker showed up with a bread peel sharpened to a point.
Ethan didn't laugh. He couldn't afford to.
He split them into small groups, each led by anyone with even the faintest hunting or combat experience. Garren oversaw the melee drills, his rough hands guiding stances and correcting grips with all the patience of a hammer.
I'm not here to make you knights," he barked. "I'm here to make sure you don't die in the first minute."
Lina was there too, silent but watchful. She didn't take charge of any group. Instead, she kept to the outskirts observing, whispering now and then to Ethan with quiet concerns about who needed rest or who had potential. She wasn't the instructor. She was the warning bell before the storm
Ethan assembled the village craftsmen and elders following the second drill night.
He stated bluntly, "The wall won't hold." "Not in its current state."
The outer ring of old stone had fallen away in many places, leaving what was left exposed, cracked, and pitted.
The potter Mave answered, "We don't have masons." "And the timber is low."
"Then we begin right now," Ethan stated. "We trade for whatever we lack. We demolish and reuse anything that we are unable to purchase.
At least three weeks, if not a month, would pass. However, they started. For wood, old barns were stripped. To strengthen weak areas, abandoned houses were meticulously demolished. Stone had been laid hastily behind Earth. Scaffolding and rooftop lookout points were used to create watch towers.
Everyone put in work. Youngsters carried nails. Stakes were sharpened by elders. Blacksmiths turned scrap into functional pieces by melting it. One hammer blow at a time, day and night, the wall rose.
Ethan slept very little. He studied the forest edge and walked the perimeter every evening, always looking for weak spots, listening.
The silence still lingered, just beneath the surface.
Progress was evident by the end of the second week. The town wasn't a fortress, but was no longer exposed.
The alleys were guarded by crude barricades. Near choke points, fire pits were excavated. Ethan set up runners and wrote signal codes. Barrels of water were stocked and placed for thirst and fire. Weight and reach were used to sort the makeshift weapons, which included axes, clubs, and spears.
The town was beginning to awaken.
Nobody knew how much time remained, though.
The town was training one night when a wild-eyed, foaming rabbit bursted into the square, crashing into a barrel before slumping in death.
The rabbit had not been hurt; it had died of fear.
The drills went on, but they were quieter and more concentrated, and the people now understood what they were working toward.
On the final night of the third week, Ethan stood before the town, now grim and worn but alert. The wall stood. The gates had been reinforced with double beams and crossbars.
"You've done what no army could do," Ethan said. "You've stood for yourselves."
He looked at the faces, tired, dirty, some still trembling.
"The tide will come," he said. "And when it does, we stand not as victims, not as prey. We stand as a people."
There was no cheer.
Just a slow nod from Garren. A fire-lit gaze from Mave. A whispered prayer from someone unseen.
And silence.
A silence that no longer crept, but waited.