Chapter 11 — The Night They Touched the Edges
Graymarch did not come with banners.
They came with fire.
The first scream tore through the camp just after midnight—short, sharp, cut off too quickly to be anything but real. It yanked Mikkel out of shallow sleep, heart slamming against his ribs as he reached for his spear.
Another shout followed. Then the unmistakable sound of something burning.
"WEST EDGE!" someone bellowed.
Mikkel was already moving.
The camp erupted into controlled chaos. Soldiers snapped awake, grabbing weapons, boots skidding on damp earth. Torches flared, casting wild shadows across trenches and half-built shelters.
Firelight danced at the far edge of the settlement.
Graymarch scouts—no more than a dozen—moved fast and light, torching supply stacks left too far from the center. They did not charge inward. They did not linger.
They were not here to conquer.
They were here to frighten.
"Buckets!" Mikkel shouted. "Form lines—don't chase!"
Some soldiers hesitated.
Signe didn't.
"YOU HEARD HIM!" she roared, already sprinting toward the flames. "Contain first! Kill later!"
That snapped the line.
Villagers stumbled from shelters, panic threatening to spill over into stampede. Freja was among them instantly, voice cutting through the fear.
"Inside the ring!" she called. "Children first—move!"
Mikkel reached the burning supplies just as a Graymarch raider hurled another torch into a stack of dried grain.
Mikkel didn't think.
He drove his spear forward.
The raider collapsed with a startled grunt, the torch dropping harmlessly into the mud. Mikkel wrenched the spear free and spun, scanning for the next threat.
Graymarch melted away as quickly as they had come, slipping back into darkness, leaving fire and fear behind.
No pursuit followed.
That was deliberate.
The flames were contained within minutes, but the damage was done.
Two supply stacks lost. One shelter burned to the frame. A man lay on the ground with an arrow in his thigh, blood dark against the earth.
Freja knelt beside him, hands steady despite the tension still crackling through the camp.
"He'll live," she said. "If infection doesn't take him."
The man's wife clutched his hand, sobbing quietly.
Mikkel stood, chest heaving—not from exertion, but from the realization settling like ice in his stomach.
They're not testing walls.
They're testing people.
By dawn, the camp was awake and angry.
Soldiers argued near the perimeter, voices low but sharp.
"We should've chased them."
"They'll just come back."
"We're letting them walk all over us."
Torben stood among them, face dark. "This happens because we're sitting still."
Mikkel approached, listening until the words turned circular.
"They want us to break formation," Mikkel said quietly.
Torben rounded on him. "They burned our food."
"Yes."
"And you still won't let us strike back?"
"Not blindly," Mikkel replied.
Torben's jaw clenched. "Then when?"
"When we can make it hurt," Mikkel said. "Not when it just makes us feel better."
The soldier looked away, fists tight.
Later that morning, Freja found Mikkel near the central fire, staring into embers that hadn't been there the night before.
"They scared the children," she said softly.
"I know."
"They'll do it again."
"Yes."
She hesitated. "You can't protect everyone."
Mikkel closed his eyes briefly. "I can try to protect the rules."
She studied him. "Rules don't stop arrows."
"No," he said. "But they stop us from becoming worse than the arrows."
By midday, scouts returned with grim news.
Liv knelt beside the map scratched into the dirt, pointing silently.
"Rotating teams," she said. "Three directions. They'll harass every night. Small fires. Arrows. Noise."
"Sleep deprivation," Signe muttered. "Classic."
"They want panic," Mikkel said. "And mistakes."
Elna approached, eyes sharp. "People are asking questions."
"What kind?" Mikkel asked.
"What happens if someone breaks the rules," she said. "If they run. Or hoard. Or retaliate on their own."
The question hung heavy.
Mikkel stood.
"Then we answer," he said.
He called the camp together before sunset.
Not with ceremony.
With necessity.
Everyone gathered—soldiers, villagers, children standing close to parents. Smoke from last night still lingered faintly in the air.
Mikkel stood in the open, no raised platform, no weapon drawn.
"Graymarch will keep doing this," he said. "They won't stop because we ask. They'll stop when it stops working."
Faces tightened.
"That means we don't scatter," he continued. "We don't retaliate alone. And we don't steal from each other."
A murmur rippled.
"If someone breaks these rules," Mikkel said evenly, "there will be consequences."
Torben crossed his arms. "Like what?"
Mikkel met his gaze.
"Work," he said. "Extra watch. Reduced rations if necessary."
Someone scoffed. "That won't stop desperate people."
"No," Mikkel agreed. "But killing them will destroy us faster."
Silence followed.
"These rules apply to everyone," Mikkel added. "Including me."
That mattered.
Later that evening, the test came sooner than expected.
A young man—no more than nineteen—was caught trying to slip beyond the perimeter with a sack of grain. Fear burned bright in his eyes as soldiers dragged him back.
"They'll starve," the boy babbled. "My sisters—"
Torben looked ready to strike him.
Mikkel stepped between them.
"Put the grain back," Mikkel said.
The boy hesitated, then did.
Mikkel looked at the gathered crowd.
"He works double shifts for the next five days," Mikkel said. "Under supervision. His family eats as usual."
A pause.
"And if he runs again?" someone asked.
Mikkel's voice was quiet, but firm. "Then he leaves. Alive. Alone."
The finality of it settled deep.
That night, Graymarch returned.
This time with arrows.
They came from the darkness beyond torchlight, shafts whispering through the air, thudding into shields and dirt. No charge followed. Just noise. Pressure. Fear.
The camp held.
Buckets were ready. Lines stayed tight. No one broke formation.
A child cried.
A man flinched.
But no one ran.
When the arrows stopped, Mikkel remained standing at the perimeter, watching the dark.
Signe joined him, blood streaked across her armor—not hers.
"They're adjusting," she said. "Harder next time."
"Yes."
"You still think this holds?"
Mikkel looked back at the camp—at Freja calming frightened children, at Torben organizing watch rotations without being told, at Elna distributing remaining food with sharp efficiency.
"Yes," he said. "Because it's not just mine anymore."
From the ridge, a horn sounded—low, mocking.
Graymarch withdrew again.
But this time, they left something behind.
A body.
Pinned upright by a spear, just beyond the perimeter. A man in Graymarch colors, throat cut clean.
A message.
Signe's hand tightened on her sword. "They want us angry."
Mikkel stared at the corpse, jaw hard.
"No," he said. "They want us predictable."
He turned away.
Tomorrow, they would bury the dead.
And the day after that—
They would decide how to answer.