Chapter 6 — When Walls Ask Questions
The garrison rose from the land like a scar that refused to heal.
Stone walls squatted atop a low ridge, their blocks mismatched and darkened by age, repairs layered upon repairs. Banners hung limp from weathered poles, colors faded enough that it took a second look to recognize the sigil. Smoke curled lazily from the inner yard, carrying the smell of oil, boiled grain, and iron.
To the refugees, it looked like salvation.
To Mikkel, it looked like a narrowing corridor.
The horns sounded once as they approached—routine, not alarmed. The gates opened slowly, iron groaning against iron, revealing a courtyard already crowded with soldiers, wagons, and the restless tension of too many people packed too tightly.
Eyes turned toward them.
Not with relief.
With calculation.
The column passed through the gates, boots echoing against stone. Soldiers on the walls leaned forward, counting numbers, noting the civilians, the children, the injured. Murmurs followed in their wake.
Mikkel felt it immediately—the shift from shared hardship to judgment.
They halted near the center of the yard.
Havel dismounted stiffly and strode ahead to speak with the gate officer, while Signe barked quiet orders to keep the formation tight. Freja guided the refugees toward the shade along the inner wall, her voice calm even as exhaustion etched deeper lines into her face.
Liv vanished into the edges of the yard without comment.
Mikkel stood still, spear grounded lightly, eyes scanning.
This place was tense in a different way than the road.
On the road, danger came from outside.
Here, it lived in hierarchy.
A door opened along the inner keep.
Silence rippled outward—not enforced, but instinctive.
A man stepped into the courtyard.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, posture rigid with habit rather than pride. His hair, once dark, had gone iron-grey at the temples, cropped short in military fashion. A thick scar ran from beneath his right ear to his collar, pale and smooth, the mark of a blade that had cut deep and clean.
He wore a commander's cloak—deep blue, heavy wool—fastened with a simple clasp rather than ornament. His armor was polished but not decorative, bearing the marks of frequent use. What stood out most were his eyes: dark, steady, and appraising, the eyes of a man who weighed decisions by outcome, not sentiment.
When he walked, soldiers unconsciously straightened.
This was Commander Rasmus Eide.
He stopped a few paces from the column, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping over the refugees first—lingering just long enough to assess numbers, condition, burden—then to the soldiers.
Finally, his eyes settled on Mikkel.
"You brought civilians," Rasmus said.
It was not a question.
"Yes," Mikkel replied.
Rasmus tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"Because leaving them meant death," Mikkel said.
A murmur ran through the gathered soldiers.
Rasmus's expression did not change. "This garrison is not equipped to house refugees."
"I'm not asking you to," Mikkel replied evenly. "I'm asking you not to turn them away."
The commander studied him for a long moment.
"And who are you," Rasmus asked, "to ask that?"
Mikkel did not hesitate.
"Mikkel Aarsen," he said. "Auxiliary. No rank."
A few eyebrows lifted.
Rasmus nodded once, as if confirming something he'd already suspected.
"Auxiliary with opinions," he said. "Captain Havel."
Havel stepped forward immediately. "Sir."
"You authorized this movement?" Rasmus asked.
Havel hesitated.
"Yes," he said carefully. "After consultation."
Rasmus's gaze returned to Mikkel.
"You held the culvert," the commander said. "You blocked a Graymarch sweep with inferior numbers."
"Yes."
"And you chose not to pursue the split column."
"Yes."
"That decision resulted in civilian losses."
"Yes."
The courtyard held its breath.
Rasmus stepped closer.
"Then explain," he said, voice low but carrying, "why I should not have you confined for overstepping authority."
Mikkel felt Freja's eyes on him. Signe's stance tightened subtly. Elna stood among the refugees, chin lifted, daring the walls to reject them.
"Because if you confine me," Mikkel said calmly, "you will still face the same problem tomorrow."
Rasmus raised an eyebrow.
"Graymarch pressure is increasing," Mikkel continued. "Your patrols are stretched thin. Your supply lines are vulnerable. If you abandon the southern road, you'll lose three more settlements within a month."
"And if I hold it?" Rasmus countered.
"You'll bleed men you can't replace," Mikkel replied. "Unless you change how you defend it."
A ripple of disapproval passed through some of the officers.
Rasmus did not interrupt.
"You're fighting raids," Mikkel said. "They're fighting attrition. You respond after damage is done. They decide where you react."
Rasmus's eyes narrowed slightly. "And your solution?"
"Hold fewer points," Mikkel said. "But hold them properly. Use terrain. Use people who know the land. Protect civilians early so they don't become liabilities later."
Silence followed.
Then Rasmus laughed.
It was short, sharp, and utterly without humor.
"You speak like a man who's never had to balance ledgers soaked in blood," he said.
Mikkel met his gaze. "I speak like someone who's tired of burying people after the fact."
That drew a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the crowd.
Rasmus looked at him for a long moment.
Then he turned away.
"Captain Havel," he said. "See to the refugees. Temporary shelter only. One night."
Relief rippled through the villagers.
"And you," Rasmus continued, turning back to Mikkel. "You'll join me."
Mikkel nodded once. "Yes."
The command building was colder inside than the yard.
Stone walls damp with age closed around a long table scarred by knives, spilled ink, and the weight of bad decisions. Maps covered its surface, weighted by stones and metal markers.
Rasmus gestured for Mikkel to stand opposite him.
"You understand that what you did invites precedent," the commander said.
"Yes."
"And precedent breeds expectation."
"Yes."
Rasmus leaned back slightly. "Why did you really bring them?"
Mikkel did not answer immediately.
"Because once soldiers decide civilians are expendable," he said finally, "the war is already lost. It just doesn't know it yet."
Rasmus studied him, eyes sharp.
"You're dangerous," he said.
"Only if ignored," Mikkel replied.
That earned a thin smile.
"Graymarch will test this garrison within days," Rasmus said. "Not a raid. A probe."
"Yes."
"If they break through," Rasmus continued, "this entire frontier collapses."
"Yes."
Rasmus leaned forward.
"Then tell me," he said quietly, "how many people you're willing to sacrifice next time."
Mikkel met his gaze without flinching.
"Fewer," he said. "If you let me plan."
The silence that followed was heavy.
At last, Rasmus exhaled.
"You'll advise," he said. "Unofficially. For now."
He straightened.
"But understand this," Rasmus continued. "If your ideas cost me this garrison, I will bury you with it."
Mikkel nodded. "That's fair."
Outside, night fell quickly.
The refugees were settled along the inner wall, fires low, guarded but not confined. Freja moved among them, exhaustion etched deep now, but she did not stop.
Signe approached Mikkel as he exited the command building.
"You enjoy antagonizing commanders?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But they don't listen unless challenged."
She smirked. "You'll fit right in."
Liv appeared beside them, silent as ever.
"Graymarch scouts near the treeline," she said. "Watching the walls."
"How many?" Mikkel asked.
"Enough."
He looked up at the battlements, at the soldiers watching the dark.
"Then they'll come soon," he said.
Freja joined them, her voice low. "The refugees are afraid."
"So am I," Mikkel replied.
She met his eyes, then nodded. "Good. That means you'll be careful."
From the far side of the yard, Elna watched him—not with accusation now, but with expectation.
Mikkel felt it settle again.
The weight.
Not of command.
But of people waiting to see if his choices would hold.
Beyond the walls, a horn sounded in the distance.
Graymarch.
Closer this time.
Mikkel tightened his grip on the spear.
The walls had asked their questions.
Soon, the road would demand answers.