Chapter 7 — The Test They Never
Announce
Graymarch did not attack at dawn.
That alone was wrong.
Mikkel stood on the eastern wall, hands resting lightly on the cold stone, eyes fixed on the tree line beyond the shallow valley. Morning mist clung low to the ground, pale and deceptive, swallowing sound and distance alike. Somewhere out there, men waited.
Not raiders.
Observers.
"They're patient," Signe muttered beside him. She wore her helm now, ash-blond hair tucked away, armor cinched tight as if she'd slept in it—which she probably had. Her green eyes tracked the fog without blinking. "Too patient."
"Yes," Mikkel agreed. "They're measuring."
Below them, the garrison stirred uneasily. Soldiers rotated watch, boots scraping stone. Refugees were kept behind the inner barricades, out of sight but not out of mind. Fear had a way of seeping through walls.
Commander Rasmus Eide approached along the parapet, cloak snapping faintly in the breeze. He stopped a few paces away, posture rigid, gaze outward.
"No horns," Rasmus said. "No banners."
"They want us guessing," Mikkel replied.
Rasmus's jaw tightened. "Or they want us bored."
"Graymarch doesn't waste boredom," Mikkel said. "They waste blood."
Rasmus glanced at him sidelong. "You're confident."
"I'm cautious."
The commander grunted. "That's not how most men describe themselves."
Below, a shout rang out from the southern watchtower—short, sharp.
Movement.
The mist shifted.
Shapes emerged.
Not a mass.
A line.
Mikkel leaned forward slightly.
"They're sending a probe," he said. "Small. Fast."
Rasmus raised his hand. Horns sounded—controlled, measured. Archers moved into position, bows drawn but not loosed.
From the fog stepped perhaps twenty men.
They wore no uniform beyond rough leather and scavenged armor, pieces mismatched but well-maintained. Their movements were loose, confident, weapons held ready but not raised.
At their head walked a man who did not belong in the shadows.
He was tall, lean in a way that spoke of long travel and careful eating rather than hardship. His dark hair was pulled back into a tight knot, revealing a narrow face marked by old scars—thin white lines along cheek and temple, precise rather than ragged. His eyes, dark and sharp, swept the walls with open interest, unafraid.
He wore a long coat reinforced with hidden plates, dyed a dull red-brown that blended easily with dirt and dried blood. A curved blade hung at his side, the grip wrapped meticulously, cared for like a favored tool.
When he smiled, it was not cruel.
It was curious.
"Scout leader," Signe murmured. "Experienced."
"Yes," Mikkel said. "And deliberate."
The man stopped just outside bow range and raised one hand—not in surrender, but in greeting.
"Morning, stone men," he called, voice carrying easily. "Cold walls you've got."
Rasmus stepped forward, voice amplified by command. "State your purpose."
The man laughed softly. "Purpose? I'm walking."
"Turn back," Rasmus said.
"Eventually," the man replied. "But not yet."
His gaze shifted upward—then locked onto Mikkel.
Something in his expression changed.
Recognition? Interest?
Hard to tell.
"You've reorganized," the man called. "Different posture. Different eyes on the walls."
Rasmus stiffened. "Enough. Leave."
The man tilted his head. "Or?"
"Or we fire," Rasmus said.
The man shrugged. "You could. But you won't."
Silence stretched.
Mikkel felt the tension coil tight.
"They're testing restraint," he said quietly to Rasmus. "If we fire, they retreat and learn our range. If we don't, they learn our patience."
Rasmus's eyes narrowed. "You suggesting we let them stand there?"
"I'm suggesting we answer differently."
Rasmus hesitated.
Then nodded once. "Speak."
Mikkel stepped forward, voice steady.
"You're close to a fortified position," he called. "You know our numbers are unknown. You know we have civilians inside these walls."
The man's smile widened. "Ah. So you do see us."
"Yes," Mikkel said. "And you know we can't pursue you far without exposing them."
"True," the man agreed cheerfully.
"So you won't learn anything by standing there," Mikkel continued. "Except that we won't be provoked."
The man considered that.
"Interesting," he said. "Most men bark or bleed."
"Most men don't plan past today," Mikkel replied.
A soft chuckle.
"Name?" the man asked.
"Mikkel Aarsen."
The man's eyebrows rose slightly. "No title?"
"No."
"Yet."
That word lingered.
The man tapped the hilt of his blade thoughtfully. "You're not from around here."
"No."
"But you're thinking about staying."
"Yes."
The man smiled again, slow and sharp. "Then we'll meet again."
He turned casually, gestured to his men, and melted back into the mist as easily as they had come.
No arrows flew.
No blood spilled.
And yet, the yard below erupted into murmurs.
Rasmus exhaled slowly.
"They'll come back," he said.
"Yes," Mikkel replied. "But not like this."
The attack came at dusk.
Not from the valley.
From the west.
The alarm horns blared—long, urgent. Soldiers ran for positions, boots pounding stone. Torches flared to life along the walls.
"West tower!" someone shouted. "Movement in the ravine!"
Mikkel was already moving.
"Archers to the inner angles!" he called, not shouting—commanding. "They're climbing, not charging!"
Signe was beside him instantly. "You sure?"
"Yes."
They reached the western parapet just as grappling hooks flew upward, iron biting stone. Shadows climbed fast, practiced, silent.
"Cut the ropes!" Signe roared.
Blades flashed. Ropes snapped. Bodies fell, screams cut short by stone and gravity.
But more followed.
"They're sacrificing speed for position," Mikkel said. "They want a foothold."
Rasmus joined them, sword drawn. "Orders?"
Mikkel assessed quickly—too quickly for hesitation.
"Hold the wall," he said. "Don't pursue. Force them to disengage."
Rasmus hesitated—then nodded. "Do it."
The fight was brutal and brief.
Graymarch fighters reached the parapet twice. Both times they were thrown back with steel and shield. Arrows flew at close range. Blood slicked stone.
Freja worked below, hands never stopping, directing the wounded away from the fighting with calm authority that cut through panic.
Liv appeared at Mikkel's side, breath barely stirred.
"Rear approach," she said. "Small group. Trying to draw forces."
"Let them try," Mikkel replied. "Signal Signe."
Signe grinned savagely. "With pleasure."
When Graymarch finally withdrew, it was not in rout—but in acknowledgment.
They had learned enough.
The garrison stood battered but intact.
Bodies lay outside the walls, but fewer than expected.
Too few for comfort.
Night fell heavy and thick.
Rasmus stood beside Mikkel on the wall once more, watching torches recede into the dark.
"You were right," the commander said quietly. "They weren't trying to win."
"They were trying to see if we could adapt," Mikkel replied.
"And?"
Mikkel watched the darkness. "They'll come back harder."
Rasmus nodded slowly. "Then so will we."
Below them, refugees whispered prayers. Soldiers cleaned blades in silence. Freja finally sat, exhaustion etched into every line of her posture.
Mikkel felt eyes on him—from soldiers, from civilians, from the walls themselves.
The test had been given.
And he had not failed.
But Graymarch did not test for weakness.
They tested for worth.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a man with scarred cheeks and curious eyes was already deciding what to do next.
And for the first time, Mikkel knew with certainty—
This was no longer about survival.
It was about holding ground long enough to build something that could not be taken so easily.