chapter 16.3

The night at The Wall was deep and unyielding, the darkness stretching endlessly beyond its towering stones. Alcard had spent the entire night trying to settle his thoughts, but by morning, the storm in his mind had only grown stronger. There were too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends that refused to be ignored.

With purposeful strides, he made his way back to Oldman's chamber, his face set in grim determination. His thoughts were razor-sharp, his focus narrowed to the one question that refused to leave him:

How did Tanivar know their route?

When he reached Oldman's desk, he hesitated only for a brief moment before speaking. "There's still something that's been bothering me." His voice was calm, but there was tension beneath his words.

Oldman, who had been meticulously going over reports, set down his quill and met Alcard's gaze. The veteran outcast's expression was unreadable, but there was a keen interest in his eyes. "Go ahead," he said, ever the patient listener.

Alcard inhaled deeply before voicing the thought that had haunted him since his return. "How did Tanivar know about our route?" His eyes burned with suspicion. "As far as I recall, only three people knew about it—you, me, and Arwen. Yet, the outcasts from the eastern outpost were already there, waiting as if they had been given advance warning."

He took a step closer to Oldman's desk, his voice darkening. "I suspect Cevral. If he knew Arwen had escaped, he would have done everything in his power to get her back. And who better to manipulate than a lord like Tanivar, someone who would sell his own men if it meant gaining more power?"

Oldman leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the wooden surface of the desk. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze distant as he connected the pieces in his mind. "That same thought crossed my mind as well," he admitted. "I never leaked any information about the route, and I don't believe Arwen would be foolish enough to expose herself like that. If Cevral was indeed behind it, then it means he's already making moves beyond Edenvila."

Alcard's jaw tightened. "So, you agree with my suspicion?"

Oldman exhaled slowly, as if weighing his words. "I can't say for certain," he replied. "Cevral is as cunning as he is powerful, but we can't rule out other possibilities. There may be spies among us. Or worse—an unseen hand moving the pieces of this game in ways we can't yet comprehend."

Before they could discuss further, a deafening bell tolled throughout the fortress—its metallic clang slicing through the morning air.

Alcard froze. That sound was unmistakable.

It was the warning bell.

It meant only one thing.

Something was coming from the south.

Oldman immediately rose to his feet, his previously contemplative expression replaced by one of grim resolve. "Monsters," he muttered, almost to himself. But beneath his voice, there was something else—a weariness that came from years of hearing that same bell and knowing what it meant.

Alcard wasted no time. He turned sharply toward the door, his instincts kicking in before he even spoke. "I'll take command of the defense."

Oldman didn't argue. Instead, he simply nodded, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen countless battles. "Mobilize every able outcast. We don't know how bad it is this time."

Alcard was already moving before the words had fully left Oldman's lips.

The moment he stepped out into the open courtyard, the fortress was already a hive of motion. Outcasts rushed to their positions, some still fastening their armor while others prepared weapons. The tension in the air was suffocating, but the discipline of The Wall's defenders remained unshaken.

Alcard scanned the gathering forces, his sharp gaze landing on the new recruits—young, inexperienced, their hands shaking as they gripped their swords and bows. Some of them barely looked old enough to fight, yet here they were, about to face horrors they could never have imagined.

But above, on the battlements, stood the veterans—the true warriors of The Wall, the ones who had faced these creatures more times than they could count. Their expressions were cold, unwavering. They nocked arrows onto their bows, their movements precise and efficient.

Alcard strode to the main gate, where the advance line of outcasts had already taken formation. The ground beneath them trembled slightly, a deep rumbling reverberating through the stones.

It was coming.

He drew his sword, the steel catching the faint glimmer of the morning sun. The weight of it was familiar, grounding him in the moment. He had fought in too many of these battles to count. But each time, the stakes only seemed to rise higher.

Then, from the darkness of the southern forest—a pair of glowing red eyes emerged.

Then another.

And another.

Dozens.

The shadows twisted, revealing the grotesque forms of mutated beasts, their bodies larger than any normal predator, their limbs elongated and gnarled as if shaped by unnatural forces. Their movements were swift, unnervingly precise. These weren't ordinary monsters.

Alcard's grip on his sword tightened. "This isn't just another attack," he muttered under his breath.

Behind him, a voice called out—one of the archers on the walls.

"They're different this time! Bigger, faster—damn it, some of them are armored!"

A realization hit Alcard like a hammer.

These creatures… They were evolving.

The Wall had held for years against the horrors of the south. But the horrors were changing. Adapting.

A low growl rumbled through the air, and the first beast lunged forward.

Alcard raised his sword.

"Hold your ground!" he roared. "Not a single one gets past this gate!"

And then, like a storm breaking over the horizon, the battle began.

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