Chapter 7: The Night Watch
The North Gate was a gap in the limestone wall, barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. A single torch flickered in its iron bracket, throwing nervous shadows across the packed earth.
Slade arrived with 67 seconds to spare. His breathing was shallow and frosted in the air, his father's knife pressing cold against his hip beneath the tunic, his forearm still throbbed from the shale, and his jaw felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. But he was here. That had to count for something.
Two other boys waited in the shadows. One was maybe fourteen, tall and wiry, with the kind of face that had already learned not to show fear. The other looked younger than Slade, ten at most, with wide eyes that kept darting to the darkness beyond the gate.
"You're the mouthy one," the older boy said.
Slade said nothing.
Upstairs, Ahsira's room was a tomb of violet light. He was leaning so far forward his forehead was inches from the monitor.
[MISSION: PROTECT THE GATE MECHANISM] [STATUS: HIDDEN]
An officer emerged from the guardhouse. It wasn't Oliver, but someone with grey threading through his beard and a scar that split his left eyebrow. He carried no parchment, no map, just a bored expression and a half-eaten apple.
"North perimeter patrol. Four hours. You walk the wall from this gate to the east tower and back. You see anything — scouts, soldiers, anyone trying to mess with the foundation — you sound the alarm." He gestured to a large bell mounted near the gate. "One ring for suspicious activity. Three rings for immediate threat. Understand?"
The three boys nodded.
"If it's just one or two enemies and you think you can handle it, engage. If it's more, run back inside and let the real soldiers deal with it." He took another bite of his apple. "Don't be heroes. Heroes get captured. Either way, the kingdom doesn't get its money's worth."
He tossed the apple core into the dark and walked back into the guardhouse.
The older boy — Marcus, Slade heard someone call him — picked up a lantern. "Stay together. Stay quiet. Don't do anything stupid."
He looked directly at Slade when he said that last part.
The perimeter was a dirt path worn into the ground by thousands of patrols before them. On their left, the castle wall loomed—thirty feet of limestone blocks mortared together with centuries of repairs visible in the patchwork. On their right, darkness. Fields. Forest. Enemy territory began somewhere out there, but the night swallowed all detail.
The ten-year-old — Finn, he'd whispered his name earlier — walked so close to the wall he kept brushing against it.
"First mission?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah," Finn whispered.
"Mine too," Slade said.
Marcus snorted. "Could've fooled me. Heard you mouthed off to Oliver."
"That was stupid."
"Yeah. But it got you here faster than most." Marcus lifted the lantern higher, scanning the tree line. "Most kids do a week of drills before they see the outside. You got three hours."
Slade didn't know if that was good or bad.
They walked in silence. The only sounds were their footsteps, the distant call of a night bird, and the occasional creak of the castle settling. The moon was a sliver, offering just enough light to see shapes but not details.
"How long have you been here?" Slade asked.
"Eight months. Fourteen missions. Got captured once." Marcus's voice was flat, factual.
Slade waited for more. Marcus said nothing.
"And?" Slade pressed.
"And I escaped." Marcus lifted the lantern higher, scanning the tree line. "Three of us got caught. I was the only one who made it out. The other two are still there. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "To turn eighteen."
Finn made a small noise that might've been a whimper.
Marcus stopped, holding up a hand. "Quiet, you hear that?"
Slade listened. At first, nothing. Then—
A scraping sound. Metal on stone. Coming from the base of the wall, maybe fifty yards ahead.
Marcus lowered the lantern, plunging them into near-total darkness. "Stay here."
He crept forward, pressing close to the wall. Slade and Finn waited, barely breathing.
Then Marcus hissed, "Three of them. At the wall. Looks like they're trying to pry out the foundation stones."
Sabotage.
"Do we ring the bell?" Finn whispered.
"Too far. They'd hear us and run." Marcus backed toward them. "Three enemies. Three of us. We can take them."
"Are you insane?" Finn's voice cracked. "The officer said—"
"The officer said engage if we can handle it. It's three adults with tools, not swords. We have spears. We have surprise." Marcus looked at Slade. "You talk back to Oliver and survive. You scared?"
Slade's hand tightened on his spear.
"N-No,"
"Good. Finn, you stay back. If this goes bad, run for the gate and ring that bell until your arm falls off."
Marcus didn't wait for agreement. He moved forward, spear raised.
Slade in his shadow.
The three enemy soldiers were crouched at the base of the wall, working by moonlight. One held a pry bar, working it into the gap between stones. Another stood watch, but he was looking outward — toward the forest, not behind him.
They didn't see the boys until it was too late.
Marcus's spear took the watchman in the back. Not deep — he turned at the last second — but enough to send him sprawling with a scream that shattered the night's silence.
The other two spun around, dropping their tools, reaching for weapons.
Slade lunged. His spear caught one in the shoulder. The man roared, grabbing the shaft and yanking it — and Slade — forward. Slade lost his grip. The man tossed the spear aside and drew the knife from Slade's belt.
"Little rat."
Slade backed up, hands empty, heart in his throat.
The man advanced. Behind him, Marcus was tangled with the one he'd stabbed, both on the ground, rolling in the dirt. The third soldier, the one who'd been prying at the wall, grabbed a fallen spear and ran at Finn, who'd frozen twenty yards back.
Slade's attacker lunged.
Slade dodged left. The knife whistled past his ribs, close enough to feel the wind of it. He stumbled, caught himself, and the man was on him again.
The knife came down.
Slade threw his arms up. The blade bit into his forearm — a white-hot line of pain that made him scream — but he caught the man's wrist, stopping the blade from reaching his chest.
They grappled. The man was stronger, heavier, pushing down with all his weight. Slade's arms shook. His torn palms screamed. The knife inched closer to his throat.
"Just die already," the man growled.
He shifted his weight, one knee driving into Slade's chest, slumping Slade to his knees, leaving him gasping for air. The knife came free from the tangle of arms and descended toward Slade's throat in a clean, killing arc.
Three inches from his neck.
Suddenly, he stopped.
Stopped cold, as if the blade had struck iron instead of air.
The soldier's face twisted in confusion. He pushed harder. His arm trembled with effort. His knuckles went white.
The blade did not move.
The soldier's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, as if he was trying to say "What—", but no sound came out.
Slade didn't think. He swiftly snatched, and his father's knife came free — three inches of rusted iron that had gutted fish and cut rope and carved his sister's name into wood.
He drove it up into the man's side, just below the ribs.
Blood welled up around the blade, hot and dark, spilling onto Slade's hands.
Slade yanked the knife free and shoved.
The man toppled sideways, clutching the wound.
Slade scrambled to his feet, breath tearing from his lungs. His forearm was screaming, blood running down to his fingertips. But he was alive.
Marcus had killed his opponent, the spear through the man's chest, pinning him to the dirt. The third soldier was running, disappearing into the darkness, Finn's dropped spear abandoned on the ground.
"Finn!" Marcus yelled.
The boy was on his knees, hands over his ears, shaking.
"Finn, get up! We have to—"
A horn sounded in the distance. Long. Low. Mournful.
Enemy reinforcements.
"Move!" Marcus grabbed Finn by the collar, hauling him upright. "Slade, come on!"
But Slade stood frozen, staring down at the man he'd killed. The soldier's eyes were still open, staring at nothing. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the dirt.
"It really… was… t-true." (Coughs) "You… can't… k- k…" the dying man had whispered, right before the light left his eyes.
"What? You can't what? What was true?"
"Slade!" Marcus's voice snapped him back.
He ran.
They burst through the north gate just as the alarm bells began to ring, not their bell, but the castle's main tower, three massive bronze bells that shook the walls with their sound.
Guards poured out, weapons drawn. An officer grabbed Marcus by the shoulder. "Report!"
"Sabotage attempt. North wall. Three enemies. Two dead. One fled. There's more coming."
The officer's eyes widened. He turned, shouting orders. Soldiers rushed past, forming defensive positions.
Slade stumbled to the side, pressing his back against the wall. His legs gave out. He slid down until he was sitting in the dirt, his father's knife still gripped in one bloody hand.
His forearm was a mess. The cut wasn't deep — glancing blow — but it was long, running from elbow to wrist. Blood soaked through his sleeve, dripping onto the ground.
But he was alive.
He looked down at the knife. The blade was dark with blood that wasn't his.
The soldier's face flashed in his mind. The blade stopping. The invisible wall. The confusion in his eyes.
"You... can't..."
[MISSION COMPLETE]
[WARNING: INJURY DETECTED - FOREARM LACERATION]
The words shimmered and faded.
Slade closed his eyes.
His father's knife slipped from his fingers and hit the dirt with a soft thud.
Footsteps approached. The officer with the grey beard crouched beside him, taking in the blood-soaked sleeve, the vacant stare.
"You're alive. That's more than most can say after their first real fight."
He grabbed Slade's forearm, and examined the cut. "Deep, but clean. You'll live." He pulled a strip of cloth from his belt and wrapped it tight, ignoring Slade's wince. "Get to the medical tent. Have them stitch it properly."
The officer stood, picking up the bloodied knife from the dirt. He studied it for a moment, three inches of pitted iron, handle worn smooth.
"This yours?"
Slade nodded.
After a few seconds of thought, the officer tossed it back.
"Good. Means you know how to use it." He walked away, barking orders at the guards.
Slade sat there, knife in hand, blood dripping from his sleeve.
Suddenly, a scream ripped through the silence.
Not a soldier's scream. Not a warrior's cry.
A girl's voice, tearing itself apart. The sound of someone discovering pain they didn't know existed.
Hayla.