Redhaven did not sleep.
The city had learned long ago that walls did not grant peace—only time. And time, when misused, was as deadly as any blade.
From the eastern towers, the watchfires burned through the night, their flames bending in the cold wind that carried the smell of iron and distant smoke. Below, the streets churned with controlled urgency. Not panic—yet—but something close enough to taste. Boots struck stone. Orders echoed. Bells rang in measured intervals, calling men to stations they had prayed never to fill.
Redhaven was old.
Older than many kingdoms that now claimed sovereignty over it. Its foundations were laid atop the bones of forgotten wars, its walls rebuilt and reinforced generation after generation, each layer a testament to survival bought dearly. The eastern wall, tallest and thickest, faced the Broken Mountains—and beyond them, the lands no human banner had ever truly held.
Tonight, that wall bristled with preparation.
Ballistae were being hauled into position, their massive arms creaking under strain. Engineers checked torsion ropes and firing mechanisms with obsessive care. Stone shot lay stacked nearby, each marked with chalk symbols denoting range and angle. Cauldrons were dragged up stairwells, soon to be filled with pitch and oil.
Below, the militia assembled.
They were not soldiers.
They were bakers, masons, weavers, sons who had never held a spear longer than a training afternoon. Their armor was mismatched—leather here, chain there, shields bearing old crests scavenged from armories long neglected. Fear sat openly on their faces, unashamed.
At the heart of it all stood Duke Reinhardt Valenroth.
He was armored, but not fully. His helm rested beneath his arm, revealing a face carved by years of command and restraint. Gray threaded his dark hair, and his eyes—sharp, assessing—missed nothing. He walked the wall at a measured pace, hands clasped behind his back, accompanied by his eldest son.
Lord Caelan Valenroth was everything Alaric was not—tall, broad, confident in the easy way of a man who had grown into expectation rather than been shaped by it. He wore his armor comfortably, as though it were an extension of his body, his cloak bearing the lion and stars of their house.
"The eastern parapet will hold," Caelan said, voice steady as he watched engineers adjust a ballista. "If they come in force, we funnel them toward Gate Three. Narrow approach. Kill zone."
Reinhardt nodded. "If."
Caelan glanced at his father. "You doubt they'll reach us?"
"I doubt anything that assumes chaos behaves predictably," Reinhardt replied.
They continued walking.
From the towers, horns sounded—short, sharp blasts signaling another wave of refugees admitted through the western gates. Families huddled together, clutching what little they could carry. Children stared at the walls with wide eyes, sensing danger without understanding it.
Caelan's jaw tightened. "We should have sent more men."
Reinhardt stopped.
He turned slowly to face his son.
"And leave the capital exposed?" he asked quietly. "Strip the borders bare? No, Caelan. We sent what we could spare—and more than politics advised."
Caelan hesitated. "Alaric—"
Reinhardt raised a hand.
For a moment, the duke was not a commander, not a pillar of the realm.
He was a father.
"You think I sent him because he is expendable?" Reinhardt asked, his voice low, dangerous not with anger, but with truth. "You think I would trade my son's life for convenience?"
Caelan looked away. "No. I think you sent him because he is capable."
Reinhardt studied him. "Yes."
They resumed walking.
The truth sat heavy between them.
House Valenroth had always understood its role. Nobility was not a privilege—it was a debt. Land, title, loyalty—these were granted in exchange for blood when blood was required. Every Valenroth son was raised knowing this. Trained for it. Prepared to be spent if the kingdom demanded it.
Reinhardt had hated that lesson.
He had taught it anyway.
He remembered Alaric as a child—quiet, observant, more interested in listening than speaking. A boy who asked why more often than how. Reinhardt had once feared that such a temperament would break beneath the weight of command.
Now he feared something else entirely.
That it would endure.
They reached the command platform overlooking the eastern gate, where officers clustered around a table much like the one Alaric had stood over days before.
Reports came in steadily.
"Militia readiness at sixty percent."
"Grain stores secured."
"Outer farms evacuated."
"Priests requesting permission to conduct public prayers."
Reinhardt allowed the last. Faith, like walls, bought time.
As the sun crept higher, casting pale light over stone and steel, Reinhardt dismissed the officers one by one until only Caelan remained.
"You should rest," Caelan said. "If the goblins breach—"
"If they breach, sleep will not save me," Reinhardt replied.
He watched the horizon.
Silently, privately, he prayed.
Not as a duke.
Not as a general.
But as a man who had sent his son to die so others might live.
God, he thought, the word rough and unfamiliar in his mind, I have given You everything You asked. My loyalty. My blood. My years. I have upheld my duty when it cost me sleep, peace, and joy.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Do not take my son.
He did not ask for victory.
He did not ask for glory.
Only that Alaric might live long enough to choose something other than war.
A shout echoed from the western tower.
"Riders!"
Reinhardt's eyes snapped open.
Moments later, a scout burst onto the platform, breathless, dust-streaked, eyes wide with something that was not fear.
"Duke Valenroth!" the man said, dropping to one knee. "Banners sighted on the eastern road!"
Reinhardt felt his heart stop.
"Whose banners?" Caelan demanded.
The scout swallowed, then grinned despite himself.
"The lion and three stars, my lord. House Valenroth."
Silence.
Reinhardt stepped forward slowly. "Explain."
"The army is returning," the scout said. "Bloodied, but intact. They march in order. No pursuit behind them."
Caelan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Reinhardt did not move.
"Alaric?" he asked quietly.
The scout nodded. "At their head."
For a moment, the weight of command slipped.
Reinhardt Valenroth bowed his head.
The prayer he had never spoken aloud was answered—not with certainty, not with peace—but with hope.
And hope, he knew better than most, was a dangerous thing.
Yet as horns sounded across Redhaven—this time not in warning, but in astonished welcome—the duke allowed himself a single, silent smile.
His son was coming home.
The walls still stood.
And the story was not yet finished.