The border did not look like a wall.
It looked like a choice that had been made too many times to be unmade.
Stone leaned on timber. Timber was braced with iron. Iron was bolted over older iron that had already failed once. Nothing matched. Nothing was elegant. Everything existed because someone, somewhere, had decided that letting it fall would be worse than rebuilding it again.
The convoy arrived at dawn, wheels grinding over cracked earth baked hard by years of sun. Dust rose in pale clouds and settled everywhere, clinging to boots, cloaks, and lashes. Ilan stepped down the moment the cart stopped. No order was needed. After a year of training, waiting felt like inviting trouble to find you.
He stood still for a moment and looked.
The fortifications stretched ahead in an uneven line. No banners. No proud gate. Just patched ramparts, reinforced palisades, watchtowers leaning slightly, corrected again and again but never rebuilt properly. The place was not meant to inspire.
It was meant to remain.
The wind carried the smell of old iron.
Not forge smoke. Not fresh steel. Old iron. The kind that had been soaked in sun, blood, and dust until it stopped smelling like metal at all.
They were lined up near stacks of supply crates and water barrels. Ilan noticed immediately that the barrels were guarded. Two soldiers stood near them, alert but bored, hands resting loosely on their weapons. Guarding water had become instinct here.
An officer waited with a wrinkled sheet of paper in his hand. His face was flat, neither cruel nor welcoming. He did not look at them as people. He looked at them as pieces that needed to be placed.
"Mera. Palisade sappers."
Mera's shoulders tightened, then relaxed. She nodded and stepped aside.
"Jon. Watch detail."
Jon swallowed hard and moved.
"Venn. Line logistics."
Venn exhaled, relief flickering across his face before he frowned, as if ashamed of it.
The promotion that had trained together for a year dissolved quietly. No protests. No speeches. Just glances exchanged, hands tightening on straps, people realizing this was the last time some of these faces would ever stand so close together.
"Ilan."
"Present."
"Soldier. Third Spear Squad."
That was all.
No encouragement. No warning.
Soldier.
No authority. No protection. Only usefulness.
Ilan nodded once and stepped out of the line.
As he passed, Toren caught his eye. Toren had talked to him during training mostly because Toren talked to everyone. He lifted two fingers in a crooked gesture and mouthed something silently.
"Try not to die."
Ilan did not smile, but something in his chest loosened. It was small. Almost nothing. In a place like this, almost nothing still mattered.
He followed a guide through a narrow passage between stone walls and reinforced timber. The border sounded like work. Hammers struck wood. Boots crossed planks. Ropes tightened. Distant calls rose from watchtowers, not alarmed, just habitual. Beneath it all lay a heavy silence, like the place itself was listening.
They passed a water barrel with guards beside it.
Water gets guards, Ilan thought. That tells you everything.
The spearmen were stationed along the southern line, overlooking barren rock and dust stretching beyond the fort. Ten soldiers worked there, some driving stakes deeper into the earth, others checking braces or standing watch. A few glanced at Ilan, then returned to their tasks without comment.
The guide nodded toward a man leaning against the palisade.
"Rhal. Squad Leader."
Rhal was broad shouldered and compact, built like someone who had learned early that falling meant dying. A scar ran from his cheek to his chin, old and clean. His eyes carried the fatigue of a man who had seen too many names vanish from roll calls and stopped reacting to it.
Ilan stopped in front of him.
Rhal studied him in silence, taking in his stance, his hands, the way he held his spear. Ilan had seen that look during training, but never this close, never this indifferent. It was not hatred. It was measurement.
"Name."
"Ilan."
"Origin."
"Subsistence village. Near the Ash Roads."
Rhal nodded once.
"You are a Soldier now. Your job is to hold. Not to chase. Not to prove anything. You hold space. You keep what is in front of you from reaching what is behind you. If you understand that, you live longer."
He gestured toward the others.
"This is your squad. Learn their faces. Learn their habits. If you have to look for someone during a fight, you are already too late."
Introductions followed, blunt and unceremonious.
A massive man stepped forward first. His shoulders were like a doorframe and his nose had been broken long ago.
"Darek," he said. "Do not stand too close to me. New people flail."
A thin woman followed, eyes sharp and constantly moving.
"Lysa," she said. "Keep your spearhead clean. Dull edges slip."
A shaved headed woman nodded once.
"Marn."
That was all she offered, as if words were rationed.
An older man with a stiff gait squinted at Ilan.
"Odel," he said. "Do not get attached. The border likes to mix names."
Then Toren stepped forward with a grin Ilan recognized immediately.
"Toren," he said brightly. "Looks like we are together again."
Ilan blinked. "You were assigned here too?"
"Apparently I point a stick forward well enough," Toren replied. "Fate rewards talent."
Rhal's gaze sharpened.
"Talking does not stop blades."
"No, sir," Toren replied instantly. "But it keeps morale alive."
A low sound escaped Darek. Almost a laugh.
Rhal turned away.
"Work first. Training after. Sleep when you can."
He looked back once, eyes settling on Ilan.
"Follow Darek today. If you get lost, you are not ready to be found."
Ilan nodded.
Toren leaned close and whispered, "If you get lost, I will tell people you died heroically."
Ilan whispered back, "I will do the same for you."
Toren looked pleased. "We are already friends."
Lysa shot them a look that could have sharpened iron.
"Move," she said.
Day 1
Work on the border was not heroic.
It was heavy. It was repetitive. It made your body ache in places you did not know existed.
They stacked sandbags along a weak section of rampart where the stone had started to settle. The sand was gritty and rationed. It came out of barrels measured like food. Lysa directed placement with sharp precision, as if she could see the future through the angle of a bag.
"There," she said. "Not there. You want it tight. You want it to resist the first shove. The first shove is always testing. If we fail the test, we never see the next part."
Toren hefted a bag and groaned loudly on purpose.
"I would like to file a complaint."
"To whom?" Odel asked.
"To the border," Toren said. "It is unreasonable."
"The border does not take complaints," Odel replied. "It takes bodies."
Toren paused, then gave Odel a respectful nod.
"Understood. I withdraw my complaint."
Marn passed him another bag without a word.
Darek watched Ilan stack and said, "Keep your fingers clear."
"I know," Ilan said.
"You know until you do not," Darek replied. "Then you have fewer fingers and the border has one more joke to tell."
Toren glanced at Ilan. "He is very cheerful."
Darek looked at Toren. "You are very loud."
Toren smiled. "We balance each other."
By midday, Ilan's shoulders burned and his hands were raw. Still, the work continued. They reinforced stakes along the palisade, hammered braces into place, replaced cracked planks on a walkway that creaked under weight.
Odel supervised plank replacement with slow, relentless focus.
"You rush," Odel told Ilan.
"I thought faster was better."
"Fast hands make funerals," Odel replied. "Slow hands make boredom. Boredom is safe."
Toren, kneeling nearby, lifted a plank like it was a sacred offering.
"I, too, value boredom," he said solemnly.
Lysa did not look up. "You value attention."
"I contain multitudes," Toren replied.
Marn finally spoke, voice low. "Contain less."
Toren's mouth fell open in fake offense. "Marn spoke. Mark the day."
Marn's eyes flicked to him. "Do not."
Toren grinned. "She cares."
Darek gave Ilan a look that almost said, get used to it.
Ilan understood something then. This squad had rhythm. They had jokes that only made sense because the alternative was silence. They had rules that were never said aloud. You carried your weight. You did not whine. You saved your fear for moments when it could be useful. You mocked death only to remind yourself it had not taken you yet.
At the end of the shift, they washed hands at a trough with water that smelled faintly metallic.
Toren splashed his face. "Do you think the water is angry?"
"It is water," Lysa said.
"It has been trapped in a barrel all day," Toren insisted. "I would be angry."
Odel muttered, "You are angry regardless."
"I am passionate," Toren corrected.
Darek dried his hands and said, "Eat. Then rest. Then clean your spear."
Toren saluted. "Yes, Senior Soldier."
Darek's eyes narrowed at the title.
Toren added quickly, "Respectfully."
Darek said, "Less respectfully. Faster."
Day 2
Meals were taken where there was room. Often against stone, backs pressed to something solid. Ilan found himself sitting with his squad by instinct, as if he had already been claimed.
The food was bland but warm. Warmth mattered.
Toren poked his bowl.
"I miss training food."
"Training food was worse," Lysa said.
"Yes," Toren replied, "but it was worse in a familiar way. This is worse in a threatening way."
Marn took a bite and said quietly, "Eat. You will miss this too."
Toren paused, then ate.
Darek looked at Ilan. "You eat fast."
"I am used to it."
"Used to hunger?" Lysa asked, eyes on his hands.
Ilan hesitated. "Used to not knowing when there will be more."
Toren softened, just slightly. "Then you will do fine here. We also do not know. It builds character."
Odel snorted. "It builds bones. Character dies first."
Toren pointed his spoon at Odel. "You are the kind of man who would insult hope just to prove you have teeth."
Odel replied calmly, "Hope gets people killed."
Toren lowered his spoon. "So does cynicism."
Silence tightened for a second.
Then Darek said, "Both of you. Eat."
The silence loosened again.
After the meal, they returned to the barracks. The room was cramped and smelled of sweat, leather, and damp wood. Beds were stacked. People's belongings were small, because anything too large would either be stolen or become a burden.
Toren flopped onto his bed with theatrical exhaustion.
"I have decided I am retiring."
Lysa removed her boots with careful precision. "You will be dead before you retire."
Toren looked offended. "You do not know my ambitions."
Odel lay down and stared at the ceiling. "Ambition is loud. The border hears loud things."
Toren whispered, "Then we whisper our ambitions."
Darek began sharpening his spearhead with slow strokes.
Marn sat with her back to the wall and started wrapping cloth around her palm, not because she needed it now, but because she would later.
Ilan sat on his bed and checked his own spear. Habit. Comfort.
Toren leaned over.
"So, Ilan," he said softly, "what is your story?"
Ilan stared at the wood above them. "Nothing interesting."
"That is never true," Toren said. "Everyone has something."
Darek spoke without looking up. "Stories do not matter. Standing does."
Lysa's voice came from the darkening corner. "If you are cornered, what do you do?"
The question sounded tactical, but it felt like more than that. It felt like she was asking who he was when the border squeezed.
"I keep the spear between me and them," Ilan said. "And I keep moving."
A pause.
"Good," Lysa said simply.
Toren tried again, gentler. "Do you have family?"
Ilan's throat tightened. "Not anymore."
Nobody pushed. Not Toren. Not even Lysa. That restraint felt like kindness.
Darek's voice lowered. "Great War?"
Ilan hesitated, then nodded once.
"They were in the army," Ilan said. "They did not come back."
Toren said quietly, "I am sorry."
Ilan did not know how to respond. He settled for, "It is what it is."
Odel muttered, "It is what the world made it."
Toren looked at the ceiling, blinking hard once.
Then he spoke like he was changing the subject, but not really.
"I had a brother," Toren said. "He wanted to be a hero. He joined early. He died early. Now I am here because I am angry at how predictable it was."
Lysa's voice was quiet. "Anger is useful if you aim it."
Marn added, almost inaudible, "Do not waste it."
Darek said, "Sleep. We work again tomorrow."
Toren rolled onto his side. "Yes, father."
Darek did not dignify it.
But Ilan noticed something. Darek did not tell Toren to shut up. He told him to sleep. That was different. That was care disguised as command.
Day 3
The next morning they worked again. Then trained. Then watched.
Days passed. The border stitched routine into their bones.
During the day, Toren talked through almost everything. He narrated tasks like he was telling a story to keep the fear away.
"As you can see," Toren said while carrying planks, "we are participating in the ancient human art of lifting something heavy and regretting it immediately."
Lysa replied, "If you drop it, you will regret it forever."
Toren adjusted his grip. "I will cherish it."
Darek taught Ilan small things that mattered. How to tighten a strap so it would not cut into skin. How to stand so your knees did not lock during long watches. How to keep your shoulders from burning by shifting weight slowly. It was not mentorship in words. It was mentorship in practice.
Marn noticed Ilan's palm blistering before he mentioned it. She held out cloth.
"Wrap it," she said.
Ilan took it. "Thank you."
Marn nodded once and went back to her spear.
Odel taught Ilan by complaining at him.
"You are stepping too hard," Odel said during patrol.
"I am walking."
"You are stomping," Odel corrected. "Stomping tells the world where you are. Stop telling the world."
Toren whispered, "Odel thinks the world is listening."
Odel replied without turning his head, "It is."
Toren's grin faded a fraction. "He might be right."
Lysa checked everyone's spearheads every evening. She did it like a ritual. She did it even when she was exhausted.
Toren watched her once and asked, "Are you checking the spear or checking us?"
Lysa did not look up. "Both."
That night, Toren produced extra bread. Ilan did not ask how. The border taught you not to ask questions that created debts.
Toren held out a piece.
"Eat," Toren said.
Ilan hesitated.
Toren narrowed his eyes. "Do not make this emotional. It will ruin my reputation."
Ilan took it and ate.
Lysa, without looking at them, said, "If you share, share evenly."
Toren spread his hands. "I shared the act of generosity. Ilan is carrying the physical burden."
Darek made that low almost laugh sound again.
Odel muttered, "We are doomed."
Ilan surprised himself by smiling.
He did not smile often. He had learned early that smiling at the wrong moment made people think you were easy. But here, with these people, a smile did not feel like weakness. It felt like a small rebellion.
Later, while cleaning spears, Toren nudged Ilan's shoulder with his elbow.
"You are getting used to us," Toren said.
"I am tolerating you," Ilan replied.
Toren looked delighted. "I knew it."
Marn glanced at them. "Quiet."
Toren lowered his voice dramatically. "We are whispering our friendship."
Marn's eyes narrowed. "Do not call it that."
Toren grinned. "She cares."
Marn threw a cloth at his face.
He caught it and pressed it to his chest. "A gift."
Lysa's mouth twitched, barely. Ilan saw it. Toren saw it too.
Toren whispered, "That was a smile."
"It was a muscle spasm," Lysa replied.
Darek said, "Stop talking. Clean."
Toren saluted with the cloth. "Yes, Senior Soldier."
Darek looked at him.
Toren added quickly, "Respectfully."
Darek said, "Faster."
Day 4
By the end of the first week, the squad had routines within routines.
Toren tried to be first in line for food, claiming it was tactical.
"If I get food first," Toren explained, "I can confirm it is edible. If it is not, I can warn you."
Lysa replied, "That is not what you do."
Toren said, "It is what I tell myself I do."
Odel always complained about the cold and refused extra blankets.
"I like suffering," Odel said.
Toren nodded solemnly. "We can tell."
Darek always checked the same section of palisade braces, as if that piece of wood owed him something.
Marn always sat with her back to a wall.
Lysa always counted heads before patrol. Not because she expected someone to be missing. Because she feared it.
Ilan began to feel, slowly, something he had not let himself feel in a long time.
Belonging.
Not safe belonging. Not permanent belonging. But real, present belonging, the kind that made you notice the space a person filled.
One evening, after watch, Toren asked a question that changed the air.
"When this is over," Toren said, "what do you want?"
Odel snorted. "Over."
Toren ignored him. He looked at Ilan.
"Humor me," Toren said. "If you live long enough for wanting to matter, what do you want?"
Ilan stared at his hands. He thought of his family. Of how the Great War had eaten them. Of how the world had not cared.
"I want it to mean something," Ilan said finally.
Toren nodded slowly. "That is a good want."
Lysa's voice was quiet. "It will not mean something unless we make it."
Darek said, "We make it by holding."
Marn spoke, reluctant but present. "We make it by remembering."
The words hung there.
Then Toren clapped his hands softly as if to break the heaviness.
"All right," Toren said. "Tomorrow I am stealing extra bread. Meaning begins with carbohydrates."
Lysa sighed. "You are impossible."
Toren smiled. "You will miss me when I am dead."
The sentence landed wrong.
Silence tightened.
Toren's grin faltered. For the first time since Ilan had met him, Toren looked young.
"I was joking," Toren said quietly.
Darek's voice was low and firm. "Do not joke about that."
Toren nodded once. "I will not."
Ilan lay awake later, staring at the ceiling, feeling the strange danger of attachment. He had avoided it his whole life because it gave the world something to take from you.
Now it was happening anyway.
Day 5
At midday a few days later, another unit settled nearby in the eating area. Lighter gear. Shorter weapons. A different kind of movement in their posture.
Ilan looked up out of habit.
Then he stopped.
She sat among them easily, sabre resting beside her. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes missed nothing. She laughed quietly at something someone said, not loud laughter, not inviting laughter, just a small sound of life.
When their gazes met, she did not look away.
"Spearman?" she asked.
"Yes," Ilan said.
She nodded toward her sabre.
"Sabre."
Toren leaned forward like curiosity made human.
"I have a question," Toren said.
Lysa said, "No."
Toren ignored her. "Are you the kind of sabre that cuts or the kind of sabre that poses?"
The woman looked at him steadily.
"I am the kind that lives," she said.
Toren blinked, then grinned. "Good answer."
She looked back at Ilan.
"What squad?"
"Third," Ilan said. "Rhal."
Her mouth twitched slightly.
"That explains the posture," she said.
Ilan did not know if it was praise or observation.
"My name is Seren," she added.
"Ilan."
Toren pointed at himself. "Toren. Professional nuisance."
"That will get you killed," Seren replied.
"Probably," Toren agreed. "But it makes the time between alive and dead less boring."
Lysa's tone sharpened. "Eat."
Toren took a bite immediately. "Yes, mother."
Seren's eyes flicked to Lysa. "You keep them in line?"
Lysa replied, "I try."
Seren nodded. "Good."
They talked. About nothing important. About food. About drills. About the way the border smelled different in the morning. About how the wind made the watchtowers creak like old bones.
It felt easy.
That was what startled Ilan the most. Not that she was calm. Not that she was sharp. That it was easy to speak.
A group of soldiers passed behind them laughing too loudly. Seren paused mid bite, eyes tightening for a heartbeat. Then she resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Toren noticed. Ilan noticed. Lysa noticed.
Nobody said anything.
When the meal ended, Seren stood.
"Stay alive," Seren said.
"You too," Ilan replied.
Seren glanced at Toren.
"Try," she told him.
Toren saluted with his spoon. "I will fail magnificently."
Seren walked away without another word.
Toren exhaled dramatically.
"Well," he said, "I like her."
Lysa replied, "Of course you do."
Darek asked Ilan, "You know her?"
"No," Ilan said.
"Now you do," Darek replied.
It felt like permission.
Seren
Seren returned to her unit with the taste of bland stew and the lingering impression of a quiet spearman who did not perform bravery.
Her unit moved differently. They did not anchor. They did not settle. They were sent when something had already started to go wrong.
Captain Maer waited near a board of posted orders, arms crossed, posture rigid. Short gray hair. Sharp eyes. Control made flesh.
"How long?" Maer asked.
"Long enough to eat," Seren replied.
Maer watched her for a moment, then looked away. Approval. Not warmth.
The unit gathered loosely. Familiar faces. Familiar noises.
Kera spoke first, as always. Her smile came too easily for this place, but her hands never shook when she drew her blade.
"You talked to someone," Kera said.
"Do not start," Seren replied.
"That is a yes," Kera said cheerfully. "Who was it? A watchman? A spearman? A cook?"
"A spearman," Seren admitted.
Kera's eyes widened. "You are branching out."
Harn sat down without speaking. Veteran eyes hollow. He spoke rarely and when he did, it was either useful or nothing.
Joss adjusted her scabbard strap again and again. New. Nervous. Trying not to show it.
Riven rotated his sabre slowly in one hand. It was not a display. It was a habit, like breathing.
Maer's voice cut through.
"You are not heroes," Maer said. "You are damage control. Spearmen hold. Watch detail sees. Sappers repair. We go where things move. We close holes. We pull people out. We keep mistakes from becoming massacres."
Joss swallowed. Kera's grin faded slightly. Harn did not react.
Seren said nothing. Listening was her form of obedience.
Later, Kera drifted close while they checked their gear.
"What is his name?" Kera asked.
Seren hesitated, then answered anyway.
"Ilan."
Kera's eyebrows rose. "You remembered his name. That is dangerous."
Seren tightened a strap. "Everything here is dangerous."
Kera leaned in. "Is he handsome?"
Seren stared at her.
Kera laughed quietly. "That is also a yes."
Seren exhaled through her nose. "He is calm."
Riven spoke without looking up. "Calm men do not last here."
Seren replied, "Loud men do not last either."
Harn finally spoke, voice flat. "Only stubborn men last."
Joss looked at Seren timidly. "Do you think I will last?"
Seren paused. She could have said something cold. Something safe. Something that did not create bonds.
Instead she said, "Keep your feet under you. Keep your hands steady. If you panic, panic after."
Joss nodded too fast. "Yes. Yes, I will."
Kera bumped Joss's shoulder gently. "You will. And if you do not, I will haunt you."
Joss smiled, small and relieved.
Maer watched them for a moment and then turned away. She did not encourage bonding. She also did not stop it.
Seren understood why. Bonds were dangerous. Bonds also kept people from collapsing.
That night, Seren's unit ate together. Kera told a story about a soldier who had tried to impress a woman by sharpening his blade in the mess hall and had cut his own thumb instead.
"It was not me," Kera said.
"It was you," Riven replied.
"It was educational," Kera insisted.
Harn said, "Eat."
They ate.
They joked.
They complained about the cold and the food and the way the wind made sleep feel like a fight.
And Seren realized, quietly, that her unit did the same thing Ilan's unit did.
They pretended the border was a place to live.
It was a trick.
It worked, until it did not.
Day 6
From Ilan's side, the border became repetition. Work, drill, watch, sleep. From Seren's side, it became routes and small alerts. They crossed paths occasionally. A nod. A brief word. A look that lasted a fraction too long.
Enough to be familiar. Not enough to be noticed.
Ilan's squad grew more comfortable around him. They began to speak as if he had always been there.
Toren started assigning Ilan roles in his nonsense.
"Ilan is the quiet hero," Toren announced one evening.
"I am not a hero," Ilan replied.
"Exactly," Toren said. "That is what makes you compelling."
Lysa said, "Stop creating narratives."
Toren replied, "Narratives are all we have."
Darek asked Ilan, "You ever smile?"
Ilan answered, "Sometimes."
Toren leaned in. "I have seen it once. It was rare. Like a miracle. Like a bird landing on a grave."
"That was poetic," Lysa said suspiciously.
Toren shrugged. "I contain multitudes."
Marn threw a cloth at his head.
Toren caught it and said, "See? Affection."
One evening, while sharpening spearheads, Darek told a story about a friend who had died on the wall years ago. He did not tell it dramatically. He told it like a fact, like weather.
"He was annoying," Darek said. "He talked too much."
Toren froze.
Darek looked at him. "He talked less when it mattered."
Toren swallowed. "Good."
Lysa's voice softened. "We will talk less when it matters."
Odel muttered, "You will talk less when you are dead."
Toren pointed at Odel. "You are not invited to my imaginary funeral."
Odel replied, "Good."
They laughed.
That laughter built attachment. Attachment built vulnerability.
And the border watched.
Day 7
The night before the alarm, the air changed.
It was subtle. The way the watchmen's voices carried more sharply. The way people checked straps twice. The way even Toren's jokes sounded like he was trying harder.
Rhal gathered the spearmen briefly.
"Watch detail reported movement far south," Rhal said. "Nothing confirmed. Do not leave your gear scattered. Do not wander alone. Sleep light."
Nobody asked questions. Questions did not change what came.
That night, Toren did not talk as much.
He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
After a while, he said softly, "If you die tomorrow, Ilan, I will be angry."
Ilan turned his head slightly. "That is a strange thing to say."
"It is true," Toren replied.
Lysa's voice came from her bed, quiet. "Do not talk like you are already dead."
Toren whispered, "Do you ever think about the future?"
Odel muttered, "The future is hunger."
Darek said, "Sleep."
Marn said nothing, but Ilan noticed she was awake. Her eyes were open, fixed on the dark like she was holding it in place.
Ilan whispered, "Go to sleep."
Toren answered, even softer, "You first."
Ilan closed his eyes. It took longer than usual.
Day 8
Morning training began before the sun had properly risen. The air was gray and cold enough to bite.
The spearmen formed up. Spears lowered and rose in cadence. Rhal walked the line, correcting angles and spacing.
"Closer," Rhal said. "Not touching. Closer."
They adjusted.
"Now hold," Rhal said.
Arms trembled. Breath misted in the cold air. Ilan's shoulders burned, but he held.
Toren whispered without moving his lips, "If I die, tell my ghost I was handsome."
Ilan replied without turning, "Your ghost will know."
Toren's mouth twitched.
Lysa's eyes flicked sideways, irritated, but she did not break formation.
Across the yard, a unit ran drills with sabres. Ilan did not look at them at first. He stayed focused. Then, between repetitions, he saw Seren's movement. Fast. Controlled. Different. Not holding. Preparing to move when holding failed.
For a heartbeat, Ilan felt something close to ease.
A rhythm.
A unit.
Toren beside him. Lysa's anger keeping the world straight. Darek steady. Marn silent. Odel muttering. Rhal watching.
Belonging.
Then the alarm sounded.
Long. Harsh. Unmistakable.
The sound cut through stone, wood, dust, and bone. Movements froze as if the border itself had spoken one word.
Now.
Orders followed immediately. Messengers ran. Boots thundered on planks. Voices snapped into command.
Rhal's tone sharpened. "Spears up. Move."
Ilan tightened his grip on his spear.
Toren's jokes vanished. His face became still.
Lysa's eyes hardened. "Finally," she whispered, and it did not sound like excitement. It sounded like resignation.
Darek's jaw clenched. Marn's hand went to the cloth wrapped around her grip. Odel spat once on the ground.
Across the yard, the sabre unit halted. Seren's calm expression disappeared, replaced by focus so sharp it looked like anger.
Ilan felt his heart drop, not only because he was afraid of dying, but because he understood what the alarm meant for something else.
It meant the border was about to take payment.
Not only in blood.
In names.
In routines.
In the fragile comfort they had just started to believe in.
The border had allowed them to be at ease.
Now it demanded that ease back.
And something was coming.