The Shiganshina District's garrison numbered close to a thousand soldiers.
Over three years, they'd managed to pile up an impressive amount of battered gear—blades with nicks deep enough to catch a thumb, broken harness buckles, cracked scabbards, warped cannon parts.
And there were only eight blacksmiths in the entire district. Counting apprentices, barely twenty people. Maintaining all of it was… an enormous task.
Everyone had been called in. Now they stood in the hall of the district's equipment depot, a drafty, dust-smelling building whose stone walls had seen better days.
Shiganshina was small, and everyone here knew everyone else.
"Harry, I hear you've been living pretty comfortably lately," a burly smith called, grinning.
"Oh, who wouldn't be, with an apprentice like his?" another chimed in. "Two months in and the boy's caught up to apprentices with three years under their belt. Works hard too… lucky for Harry, even if he's—"
"Who are you calling stupid?!" Harry snapped.
The others laughed, their voices echoing off the high ceiling.
Lock tuned it out. He let his eyes wander across the hall—over racks of dusty equipment, over the garrison soldiers slouching at the edges.
They didn't inspire much confidence. A century of peace had dulled their edges. Too many bellies soft with drink, too many eyes half-lidded with boredom. In Lock's mind, only the Survey Corps still had the steel to face Titans. The Garrison had turned into wall decorations. The Military Police were worse—politics, not protection.
The thought made him shake his head. No point in saying it out loud. Truths like that didn't win friends inside the Walls.
A few apprentices shot him sidelong glances—some dismissive, some openly hostile. Lock was used to it. In Shiganshina, he was "that other family's perfect child," the one parents used to shame their own. It came with a certain amount of envy.
The depot's chatter died down as a familiar, slightly slurred voice called, "Everyone here?"
Lock turned to see Hannes strolling in, the same man who—if Lock's memory of the future was right—would one day save Eren and Mikasa from a Titan.
Hannes gave the group a lazy once-over, his gaze pausing briefly on Lock before moving on. "Sorry to drag you all in. Workload's heavy, but… same rules as always."
The corner of his mouth tilted in a knowing grin. The blacksmiths chuckled. Whatever "rules" those were, everyone here was in on it.
Harry clapped Lock on the shoulder. "Come on."
Two garrison soldiers lounged by the warehouse door, barely glancing at the tools the smiths carried before waving them in.
The air inside was stale with dust and disuse. Rows of crates sat stacked like silent sentries, their lids coated in gray.
Lock let out a low whistle. "Looks like this stuff's been sitting here forever."
"Better that way," Harry said over his shoulder. "If this gear gets used, it means things have gone bad. No one wants that."
Lock's jaw tightened. It will happen next year. But he kept that thought to himself. Without proof, it would only make him sound insane.
Harry led him to the right side of the depot. "This section's ours. Let's get to it."
Lock popped open the nearest crate. Inside, nestled in oiled cloth, was the standard weapon of a garrison soldier: a thin, gleaming blade. He'd never held one before, yet the moment his fingers closed around the hilt, it felt… right. Natural. Like an extension of his arm.
He gave it a short, fluid swing, testing its balance. The blade whispered through the air, wickedly sharp even after years of sitting idle.
"A knife made for killing Titans," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. A flicker of longing ran through him.
He tightened his grip, feeling—just for a moment—as if the world was something he could hold onto.
That moment was broken by a voice behind him, light with amusement.
"Well, Lock… you want it?"