CHAPTER 93: Northern Wall (Part 1)

A Fort Built to Protect

Then Simmon looked toward the communication officer.

“What happened to the reinforcement from the capital?”

The command hall turned colder than it already was.

No one answered immediately, not because the question had no answer, but because every man inside the hall understood what it meant. The North had endured three days of continuous monster assault from the Dark Forest. Soldiers were exhausted. Mages were pale. The wall remained standing, but the snow beneath it had become a burial ground of frozen blood, shattered weapons, and monster corpses stacked so high that workers had begun burning the outer piles simply to clear firing lines. The first wave should have ended as a warning.

Instead, a second wave had already been detected.

Marquis Simmon Frosthelm stood before the war table with his arms folded across his chest, his fur-lined cloak hanging over armor that had not been fully removed since the first horn sounded. Around him, lesser lords, captains, mages, and military officers waited in heavy silence. Their eyes showed fatigue, but not surrender. The North did not know how to surrender easily. It knew how to calculate how many men a wall would cost before dawn.

The communication officer swallowed, but before he could answer, hurried steps echoed outside the chamber.

The doors opened.

An envoy from the capital entered with snow crusted along his cloak, mud hardened around his boots, and exhaustion carved beneath both eyes. Two northern guards followed him in, but the man still forced himself to stand straight. He bowed deeply before Simmon, one hand pressed over his chest in royal courtesy.

“My lord Marquis,” the envoy said, voice rough from cold travel. “I carry His Majesty’s response.”

Simmon’s gaze sharpened. “Speak.”

“The reinforcement from the capital will reach the Northern Wall in two days.”

A murmur passed through several lesser lords.

Two days were not long in ordinary military time. In a monster wave, it could become a generation. Every hour meant more arrows spent, more wounded carried from the wall, more mages forced past safe casting limits, more citizens waiting in shelters while the earth trembled under claws and stone feet.

The envoy continued before anger could shape itself. “His Majesty has ordered one capable reinforcement to support Frosthelm.”

One of the lesser lords stood so fast his chair nearly fell.

“One?” he snapped. “The North bleeds for the kingdom, and the capital sends one?”

The envoy lowered his head, not because he agreed, but because he was too disciplined to respond to insult with insult.

Simmon turned his eyes toward the lesser lord.

That was enough.

The man’s mouth shut before foolishness became treason against both courtesy and necessity. In the North, one could be angry. One could be exhausted. One could even curse monsters, weather, roads, and fate. But disrespecting an envoy carrying the King’s word inside Frosthelm’s command hall while soldiers died on the wall was not courage. It was an undisciplined weakness wearing pride.

Simmon’s voice was flat. “Sit.”

The lesser lord sat.

The envoy bowed again, deeper this time, gratitude hidden beneath formality. “His Majesty does not underestimate the northern issue. However, scouts from the capital have confirmed another threat near the eastern border. Militia groups are gathering and preparing for an open rebel movement against the royal faction. The capital is preoccupied with military defense and internal control. His Majesty sends one reinforcement because he trusts that this individual can help the North handle the monster wave accordingly.”

The room changed.

Not fully calmed, but sharpened.

Eastern militia. Rebel war. Capital preoccupation. Monster waves in the North. Supplies requested from the West. The pattern no longer felt like separate misfortunes. It felt like hands pulling ropes from different directions.

Simmon did not show surprise.

He had already suspected that something was trying to stretch the kingdom.

“Who is the reinforcement?” he asked.

The envoy raised his head.

“The Enchantress.”

Silence.

This time, it did not come from doubt.

It came from recognition.

Even the lesser lord who had nearly insulted the envoy lowered his gaze. The title was enough to close every mouth in the chamber. The Enchantress was not a common court mage, not a decorative noble caster used in ceremonies, and not a scholar who had grown old behind books without smelling blood. She was a battlefield mage of rare specialization, one whose magic could alter terrain, disrupt monster coordination, and bend hostile movement into controlled killing fields. In the capital, some called her a charm mage. Soldiers knew better. Her enchantments did not merely decorate objects or influence minds. They reshaped the conditions of battle.

Simmon had expected a meaningful name.

He did not need to ask further.

“Tell His Majesty that Frosthelm received his support with respect,” Simmon said. “Relay the detailed cause of the monster wave as far as we understand it. Abnormal mana wavelength. Mixed monster composition. Six disturbed points along the Dominion boundary. Dark residue present but unconfirmed in the source. Inform him that the North will desperately defend the wall until the Enchantress arrives.”

The envoy bowed. “I will relay it, my lord.”

“Eat first. Rest long enough not to die on the road. Then leave with an escort.”

The envoy’s composure nearly broke at the simple mercy. “Thank you, my lord.”

Simmon turned back to the map before the man even exited.

“Prepare second-wave defense. If the capital is also pressured, we cannot expect excess soldiers. We defend as if no one else will arrive, and we receive aid as if it must not be wasted.”

The captains answered as one.

“Yes, my lord.”

Far away in Gothaeron, King Leonardo Gotha was already in the middle of a military council.

The capital’s war chamber was not as cold as Frosthelm’s, but its pressure was no less severe. The long table at its center was covered with maps of the capital district, the eastern border, the noble estates around the Old Noble Ring, and the northern fortress line. Small markers showed militia gatherings, suspicious merchant routes, eastern rebel clusters, and reports of abnormal monster activity near the Dark Forest. Every hour brought another message. None brought comfort.

King Leonardo stood at the head of the table.

The crown was not on his head.

This was not a throne ceremony. This was survival governance. His cloak bore the royal seal of House Gotha, but his sleeves were rolled slightly at the wrist, and several reports lay open before him with marks written in his own hand. Around him stood royal officers, tower representatives, Church envoys, intelligence clerks, and three of his four loyal generals. The fourth, General Douglas, remained in the South under prior order.

Leonardo knew who was behind it.

Not fully in legal proof, not yet in a manner that could be announced before the court without splitting the kingdom immediately, but in pattern, timing, and method. Duke Vilcrom. His first cousin. The man who had spent years hiding ambition beneath inherited power, rebellion whispers, eastern networks, and dark influence. Vilcrom understood that dirty tactics arranged properly could create confusion, desperate choices, and unforeseen variables. A monster wave in the North. Militia pressure from the East. Noble faction rumors. Bandit violence in the South. Supply strain from the West. None of these needed to win alone.

Together, they forced the kingdom to choose where to bleed.

But King Leonardo did not show fear.

He had no room for it.

“General Archival,” he said.

A tall man in dark royal armor stepped forward. General Archival was lean, severe, and disciplined to the point of appearing carved rather than born. He was one of the King’s four loyal generals, known for a defensive formation that did not wait passively for the enemy to strike.

“Your Majesty.”

“You will initiate defense formation along the eastern border of the capital.”

Several council members looked toward the map.

Leonardo continued, “Defense does not mean standing still. Measure enemy movement. Correct their assumptions. Break supply gatherings before they become a siege line. Redirect civilians away from pressure districts. Secure the law offices, eastern gates, and Golden Ledger District routes. If militia groups advance, contain them. If they retreat, mark where they retreat to. I want movement answered with structure.”

Archival bowed. “By your command.”

“Do not overextend into noble estates without warrant,” Leonardo added. “They want us to look tyrannical.”

“Understood.”

“General Garba.”

A broader man with a thick neck, heavy brows, and a scar across one cheek stepped forward next. General Garba was less elegant than Archival but no less loyal. He specialized in hardened defense, garrison rotation, and holding rough lines under pressure.

“Your Majesty.”

“You will reinforce the northern border of the capital and prepare for stray monster pressure.”

A noble official near the back frowned. “Your Majesty, the main monster wave is at Frosthelm. Would that not be excessive?”

Leonardo looked at him.

The official lowered his head immediately.

“Excessive preparation is cheaper than surprised mourning,” the King said. “Some monsters already slipped toward the northern capital border. If more waves are triggered, we anticipate leakage. General Garba, prepare wall rotations, civilian shelter routes, and mage support. It may seem minor now. Treat it as tomorrow’s wound.”

Garba struck his fist to his chest. “The northern border will hold.”

“General Douglas remains in the South,” Leonardo continued. “His standing order is to protect Valenhart if any issue arises and coordinate with Marquis Alistair under allied authority.”

One royal clerk stepped forward with a sealed report. “Your Majesty, the latest report from the South confirms continued internal stability. The underground construction concept has begun under the highest secrecy.”

The King accepted the report and read the relevant lines quickly.

The South was moving.

Quietly, as expected.

The Silent Vein had not been named in the report in full detail, but the conceptual language was enough. Hidden logistics. South Capital emergency artery. controlled movement beneath surface disruption. Leonardo’s eyes remained on the page for several breaths.

Valenhart had become one of his trusted trump cards.

Not because it was already stronger than the ancient houses. It was not. Not because Adrian could solve everything. He could not. But because the South thought differently. When others saw blocked roads, Adrian imagined routes beneath the earth. When others saw poverty, Valenhart saw unused space. When nobles shouted about prestige, the South built systems. That kind of ally could change the board if given enough time.

The King folded the report. “Continue secure correspondence. No public mention.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

A council official stepped forward next. “The Enchantress has departed toward the North.”

Leonardo nodded. “Good.”

“Additional supplies from the West have been confirmed. The South has also sent a limited support package—medicine, preserved food, and arrow components—under neutral relief designation. Arrival from each route is estimated in two days, depending on road conditions.”

“Record gratitude to Marquis Edward and Marquis Alistair,” Leonardo said. “Do not let faction scribes twist support into competition.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Only one general had not yet received external deployment.

General Marci stood closest to the King.

She was not the largest of the four generals, nor the most publicly famous, but she was the one whose presence near Leonardo made assassins reconsider whether loyalty could have a blade sharper than ambition. Her silver-black armor was lighter than Garba’s and less formal than Archival’s, and her hair was tied tightly behind her head. She had served the royal family through three assassination attempts and two succession crises that never reached public record.

Leonardo looked toward her.

“General Marci.”

“Your Majesty.”

“You remain in the capital core. Royal security. Sunspire Palace, Crown Hall, Sevenfold Council, and the royal family’s movement. No compromise. No ceremonial leniency. If someone approaches with noble blood and suspicious hands, treat the hands first.”

Marci’s expression did not change. “Understood.”

A priest near the council table murmured a blessing under his breath.

The King looked back over the maps.

North under monsters.

The East is under militia pressure.

West moving supplies.

South building beneath silence.

And somewhere behind it, Vilcrom smiled.

Leonardo placed both hands on the table.

“Begin.”

In the West, Marquis Edward Silvarenne received two requests before noon.

One from the North.

One from the capital.

The letters lay side by side on his desk, their seals broken, their urgency obvious. Around him, his estate office smelled of ink, polished wood, dried flowers, and the faint sweetness of silk storage nearby. Edward was a refined man by Western standards, elegant in movement, careful in speech, and too intelligent to be fooled by his own soft surroundings. The West was fertile, wealthy, and full of merchants who smiled while counting another man’s desperation. In a crisis, that could become a weakness. Or leverage.

Edward chose leverage.

He summoned his merchant council.

They arrived expecting difficult negotiations.

He gave them none.

“The North requires continued supplies,” Edward said. “The capital requires support materials, healing goods, and transport stability. Both requests carry royal weight. This is an opportunity to earn trust and money at the same time.”

Several merchants exchanged glances.

One older merchant with rings on three fingers leaned forward. “My lord, prices may rise naturally under demand.”

Edward smiled.

It was pleasant enough to frighten men who knew him well.

“Prices may rise within the approved wartime margin. Anyone attempting predatory inflation will discover that profit is easier to enjoy when licenses remain attached to one’s name.”

The merchant lowered his head. “Of course, my lord.”

Edward continued, “Silk-lined winter cloth to Frosthelm. Grain, preserved food, herbs, and tonic shipments prioritized. Court garment production slows. Military cloth production rises. Western wagons moving toward the capital will carry healing supplies and merchant credit documents under guard. Every guild under my authority will support in full.”

Another merchant asked carefully, “And compensation?”

“You will be paid,” Edward said. “You will also be remembered. The North remembers support. The capital records loyalty. And Valenhart watches how roads behave under pressure.”

At the mention of Valenhart, the room sharpened.

Edward noticed.

Good.

Fear of missing the future could move merchants faster than patriotic speeches.

“No one disobeys,” Edward said.

No one did.

By the time the second monster wave reached the Northern Wall, western supply lines were already moving.

The second wave was worse.

It came beneath a sky the color of iron, across snow trampled black and red by the corpses of the first assault. Scouts had warned of movement, but warnings could not fully prepare the eyes for the sight of it. The first group looked familiar enough to be understood: goblins, orcs, dire wolves, and lower golems. Twice as many as the first wave’s visible front line. Shabby formation, if it could be called a formation at all. Monsters pushed, stumbled, shrieked, collided, and trampled their own dead as they came.

The wall responded.

Archers fired before the monsters reached the corpse field. Mages triggered prepared frost traps, slowing the front and making goblins slip beneath orc feet. Ballista crews aimed for the lower golems first, striking joints, core seams, and unstable stone clusters. Northern knights held the gate towers, ready to descend only if the monsters reached the inner barricade.

The first group was halved before reaching the ditch.

But numbers mattered.

There were too many.

Goblin bodies filled the traps. Orcs used the dead as footing. Dire wolves leaped over frozen piles and threw themselves against shielded spear points. One lower golem collapsed near the left wall section and created an accidental bridge of stone and monster flesh that forced the captain to send a burning oil order earlier than planned.

Then the second army appeared behind them.

The wall quieted for half a breath.

Mid-level monsters.

Ent trees moved first, their twisted wooden bodies dragging roots through the snow, branches reaching like spears. Their bark was darkened by the Dominion’s mana, and faces formed in their trunks, not with human expression, but with hunger shaped from knots and cracks. Lower wyverns circled above the backline, too small to threaten the entire fortress alone, but large enough to tear archers from towers if allowed close. Lizardmen marched in loose packs, armed with bone spears and scale shields, far more coordinated than goblins. Spiderlings poured over rocks in clusters, their legs clicking against ice. Centaurs moved behind them, bows drawn, their eyes glowing with unnatural rage.

Hadrin stood beside Simmon on the command platform, face pale beneath his fur hood.

“This is no ordinary wave.”

Simmon’s expression did not move. “I can see that.”

“The second group is waiting.”

That was the part that made the Marquis’s disgust show.

The mid-level monsters did not crash forward immediately.

They held.

Not perfectly. Not like human soldiers under command. But enough. They allowed the lesser monsters to exhaust the wall first. They watched the killing field fill. They let arrows and spells be spent on the first mass. Then they advanced only when the defenders’ rhythm had begun to strain.

“That is troublesome,” Simmon said.

Hadrin nodded. “Mid to higher monsters should not reduce the situation like humans unless something is guiding the rage or shaping instinct.”

“Then whatever triggered this is not merely opening a cage,” Simmon said. “It is pointing at the beasts.”

The second army began moving.

Ent trees absorbed arrows that would have killed flesh. Fire mages struck them next, but snow and Dominion mana dampened some of the burn. Wyverns dived toward the right tower, and three northern mages combined wind and ice to force them higher. Lizardmen reached the outer ditch and began cutting through spike traps with crude but effective coordination. Spiderlings crawled along the wall cracks until boiling water and flame oil poured down to scatter them. Centaurs fired from behind the first line, their arrows arcing toward exposed mages.

The wall held.

But it showed strain.

The first day of the second wave became a contest of endurance.

By nightfall, the defenders had not fallen back, but their rotations thinned. Mages needed longer rests. Archers had to share bowstrings. Two wall sections required emergency reinforcement. The lower golem bridge on the left was destroyed only after a team of aura knights descended under heavy cover and shattered the corpse-stone mass before it could become a climbing route.

On the second day, the mercenaries joined the battle.

They arrived in rougher formation than northern soldiers, but not without discipline. Companies with monster extermination experience were easy to identify by how they looked at the wall: not with awe, not with fear, but with quick calculation of height, angle, corpse field, escape points, and where payment would likely become dangerous. They carried varied weapons—heavy axes, hooked spears, reinforced bows, chain blades, tower shields, and traps designed for beasts rather than men.

Their style was different.

Northern soldiers fought like a wall.

Mercenaries fought like hunters.

They did not hold lines as cleanly, but they knew how to punish monster habits. Hooked spears dragged dire wolves into spike pits. Chain blades wrapped around orc ankles. Heavy axes targeted lizardman knees instead of armored torsos. Beast traps snapped shut over spiderling clusters. Fire pots were thrown not at the ent bodies, but at the root joints. Some mercenaries shouted crude insults at monsters as if rage could be redirected through mockery, and strangely enough, against certain beasts, it worked.

Simmon watched from the command platform.

His disgust at the monsters’ behavior did not fade, but his evaluation of the mercenaries improved slightly.

“Rough,” Hadrin said.

“Useful,” Simmon answered.

“They fight like men who expect the monster to cheat.”

“That is why I hired them.”

Below, the mercenary units helped counter the numbers of the first monster group. They did not replace northern discipline. They relieved it. Goblin clusters that would have drained arrows were intercepted by trap teams. Orcs that reached the ditch were dragged sideways into killing angles. Dire wolves that had learned to leap over spear points were met by nets weighted with iron hooks.

Still, the second group waited.

Ent trees. Wyverns. Lizardmen. Spiderlings. Centaurs.

They watched for exhaustion.

Simmon’s hand tightened around the edge of the command platform. “Monsters waiting for fatigue like men outside a siege.”

Hadrin’s voice was grim. “Whatever is driving them is learning from the wall.”

“No,” Simmon said. “Whatever is driving them already understands walls.”

A heavy step sounded beside him.

Not northern armor.

Not a royal plate.

A man climbed onto the command platform without asking permission from anyone below, though the guards did not stop him. He was massive, with the build of a barbarian carved by war rather than court training. His hair was dark and braided at the sides, his beard thick, and his shoulders wrapped in layered hide and metal plates taken from different battlefields but maintained with care. A great axe rested across his back. His forearms were bare despite the cold, covered in scars and old monster-bite marks. Around his neck hung a string of iron tokens, each stamped with the mark of a completed extermination contract.

He stopped beside Simmon and looked down at the battlefield.

“Ugly wave,” he said.

Simmon did not turn fully. “You are late.”

The man grinned. “I came after being paid, not summoned by bloodline.”

Hadrin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Simmon only gave a low grunt.

This was Baldur Redock.

The Mercenary King.

Not a king by crown. Not a bandit lord pretending power through slaughter. Baldur’s title had been earned through contracts fulfilled, monster territories cleared, caravans saved, fort towns defended, and mercenary companies brought under principles strict enough to separate them from criminals. Unlike bandits, his men did not rob the road after taking payment. They earned with rules. They killed what they were hired to kill. They punished companies that broke the contract. They charged heavily, but they did not sell the same blade twice in one battle.

Their expertise was monster extermination.

That was why Simmon was pleased to see him, even if his face did not show it.

Baldur leaned one hand on the platform rail and watched an ent tree absorb three fire arrows before a mercenary team managed to burn its roots.

“The first group is bait,” Baldur said. “The second group is the real trouble. Third, if there is one, will test whatever section looks tired.”

Simmon finally glanced at him. “You see it too.”

“I would be dead if I didn’t.”

Baldur’s grin faded slightly as a lower wyvern dove toward the right tower and was driven back by a burst of ice magic.

“This is not normal Dominion behavior,” he said.

“No.”

“Someone is poking the forest.”

“Yes.”

Baldur looked toward the dark line beyond the corpse field, where more shapes moved behind the second wave.

“Then we kill what comes out first,” he said. “Find the hand later.”

Simmon’s mouth tightened.

It was the same conclusion he had reached.

Defense before investigation.

Baldur Redock stood beside him like a noble who had never needed noble blood to show strength.

Below them, the wall shook again as the second monster army advanced.