The boy saw them first.
He was sixteen, a watchman's apprentice on the northern tower, standing the pre-dawn shift because the older men took the warmer hours. He was half-asleep, his cloak pulled tight against the wind, his eyes scanning a horizon that had been empty every morning for two years.
Today it was not empty.
He rubbed his eyes. Looked again. The shapes were still there — dark against the grey pre-dawn sky, too many to count, spreading across the water from one edge of the horizon to the other. Not islands. Not fishing boats. Not traders.
Ships.
He grabbed the bell rope and pulled.
The bell rang across the tower — three sharp strokes, then three more, then three more. The alarm pattern. Enemy fleet approaching.
