Chapter 24

The knock on the door of my workshop came with the kind of authority that told me exactly who was standing outside. It was the kind of knock that made the wood vibrate slightly and carried the message: "You will answer, and you will answer now."

I put down the thin tool I had been using to carve an intricate rune into the pommel of a dagger, wiped my hands on a cloth, and strolled over to open the door. As expected, Lucius Cassian, high-ranking noble of the city council, stood on the other side, his expression a peculiar mix of exasperation and something that almost looked like respect—or maybe it was just the begrudging acceptance of necessity.

"Well, Master Goodchild," he began, stepping inside uninvited, though the workshop hardly welcomed guests, "it seems your reputation has grown even more formidable since our last meeting."

"Nice to see you again, Lucius," I said, closing the door behind him with a soft click. I crossed my arms, leaning casually against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow. "And to what do I owe the honor this time?"

Lucius gave me a look that carried the weight of something he hadn't quite accepted. "The lord has instructed me to escort you to review the defenses on the wall. The one that stretches across the valley—the only thing stopping the orcs from entering the Empire's lands."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Oh? That's unexpected. Didn't realize I was so indispensable."

Lucius sighed, running a hand over his brow. "I guess it shouldn't be unexpected, but... well, this is going to step on the toes of some very entrenched military men. The wall has been their pride and joy for decades—fortified and maintained by the empire's finest. And now they're about to be told that their efforts aren't quite good enough."

"Let me guess," I said with mock seriousness. "That makes your job... less fun?"

"Fun isn't the word I'd choose," Lucius said, narrowing his eyes. "But yes. The military will not take kindly to an outsider stepping in, least of all someone they'll see as a mere 'artisan.' And that's not to mention the military craftsmen... Well, they're likely to see you as a threat, and I imagine their hostility will be palpable."

"Palpable hostility." I smirked. "Sounds like my kind of afternoon."

"Try not to enjoy it too much," Lucius replied, though there was a hint of a smile lurking behind his ever-stoic demeanor. "Just know that I'll be running interference for you. The lord's orders are clear, and they'll protect you from outright insubordination... but don't expect them to make your life easy."

"Lucius, when have I ever expected life to be easy?" I pushed myself off the doorframe, moving toward a corner of the workshop where I kept my more intricate tools and a few personal items, and began gathering what I'd need. "Besides," I added, "it's not every day I get to poke around the Empire's so-called impenetrable wall. Who knows what I'll find there?"

Lucius gave me a sideways glance, clearly wondering how much I was actually looking forward to this. The truth was, I was. I didn't much care for military types, but I did care about runes—and the kind of magic that fortified an entire wall to keep an army of orcs at bay? Now that was something I couldn't resist.

I strapped on my leather bracers, which bore a few defensive runes of my own making, and tucked a few etching tools into a belt pouch. Lucius watched with the weary patience of a man who had spent too many years dealing with the unpredictable whims of others.

"You ready?" he asked, sounding like a man resigned to a long day of unnecessary arguments.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

As we stepped outside, the city was bathed in the midday sun, the streets alive with the usual buzz of traders, craftsmen, and nobles going about their business. But the moment we reached the outskirts of the city, the atmosphere shifted. Waiting for us, leaning against the city walls, was a group of rough-looking military men and even rougher-looking military craftsmen. If ever a group could embody the word "resentment," it was this one.

I could feel the tension crackling between them like a spark waiting to ignite.

"This is him?" one of them—a grizzled soldier with a face like granite—asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is the one who's going to... what? Improve on our work? As if the wall we've built over generations isn't enough?"

Lucius, to his credit, remained calm and collected, though I could sense the strain in his voice. "Master Goodchild has been requested by the lord himself. I trust no further explanation is necessary?"

The soldier spat on the ground, but said nothing more, his glare shifting to me, as if daring me to say something clever. I had half a mind to oblige, but I restrained myself. No need to provoke the bear just yet.

We began the trek toward the valley wall in a tense silence, the soldiers occasionally muttering amongst themselves, clearly unhappy with my presence. I strolled behind them, content to let Lucius handle the bulk of the conversation—or rather, the lack of conversation. After all, it wasn't me they were annoyed with—it was the idea of change, of being shown up. They had built this wall; it was their legacy. And now some outsider was about to poke holes in it, both figuratively and, perhaps, literally.

Thirty minutes later, the iron gates of the valley wall loomed ahead of us, towering and dark against the landscape. It was an imposing structure, no doubt. Built to withstand sieges, to turn back hordes of orcs. But as I drew closer, I could already feel the familiar hum of magic pulsing beneath the stone, weaving through the cracks like veins of energy.

We stopped at the gate, and the grizzled soldier from earlier crossed his arms, looking up at the wall with a kind of pride that bordered on arrogance. "What more can you do than we've already done?" he asked, his voice low but filled with challenge. "We've fortified this wall with the best runes the Empire has to offer."

I stepped forward, resting a hand against the cold iron of the gate, letting the magic seep through my fingertips. It was powerful, yes—but there was something... dated about it. The runes they'd used were solid, well-constructed, but they were old. Predictable.

"Runes are like stories," I said, turning to face the group, my tone casual. "They're powerful because they've been passed down through generations. But stories change over time. They adapt. Evolve. And if you don't keep up, well... the story can lose its impact."

The soldier frowned, clearly not interested in philosophical musings, but Lucius gave me a subtle nod, urging me to continue.

"The runes here," I said, gesturing to the wall, "are effective, no doubt. But they're missing something. Flexibility. Adaptability. Orcs aren't stupid—far from it. They've been testing this wall for decades. They know its strengths and weaknesses better than you do."

The craftsmen bristled at that, but I pressed on. "I'm not here to tear down your work. I'm here to enhance it. To make sure that when the orcs come—and they will come—this wall won't just hold. It'll push back."

A murmur ran through the group, uncertain but intrigued. Lucius, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Master Goodchild's expertise has been requested by the lord for a reason. He isn't here to replace what you've built, but to improve upon it. To ensure that our defenses are the best they can be."

The grizzled soldier stared me down for a long, tense moment. His eyes, cold and hard like the steel of his sword, flicked over me as if trying to figure out where the threat lay. His face twisted in a way that suggested he wasn't fond of outsiders, especially ones who'd been handed an important task by someone as influential as Lord Alaric. Then, with a derisive snort, he spat on the ground at my feet, turned on his heel, and stormed off.

I smirked, watching him go. "Charming fellow, isn't he?" I muttered under my breath, loud enough for Lucius to hear.

Lucius exhaled, his patience visibly fraying at the edges. "Don't take it personally. They're protective of their work, and they don't like feeling... upstaged."

"Well," I said, adjusting the strap on my leather bracers, "if they did their job perfectly, they wouldn't need me here. I suppose that's part of the problem."

A couple of soldiers remained, eyeing me with suspicion but without the open hostility of their leader. They were craftsmen, judging by their calloused hands and the soot-streaked tunics, the ones who had probably spent years carving runes into the stone walls, reinforcing the defenses. I could tell they weren't thrilled about having an outsider examine their work, but at least they hadn't followed their captain in storming off.

"So," I said, addressing the group that remained, "why don't you show me what you've done here? Walk me through the runes on the wall. I'd like to understand exactly what's in place before I suggest any improvements."

One of the craftsmen, an older man with a greying beard and a furrowed brow, stepped forward reluctantly. "We've already explained these runes to plenty of overseers," he said gruffly, "but if the lord insists, I guess I'll do it again."

He led me to the base of the wall, pointing to a series of etched symbols along the stone's surface. I took out a thin notebook from my pocket, carefully sketching the runes as he explained their functions. Every stroke of my pencil was deliberate, my mind already processing how these old, established symbols could be... well, enhanced.

"These runes here," the craftsman grumbled, "are for strengthening the wall's structure. They spread the impact force evenly, so a battering ram or a catapult stone can't just break through one point. That's been the foundation of the defense for decades."

I nodded, taking in the details. The runes were old—very old—but effective in their simplicity. Yet, like any story that had been told too many times, the magic had grown tired. "And these?" I asked, gesturing to a set of runes etched higher up, near the top of the wall.

"Repulsion runes," the craftsman explained. "Anyone trying to scale the wall gets thrown off. It's strong enough to repel even a full-grown orc."

I raised an eyebrow. "Even a united orc force?"

He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "That... remains to be seen," he admitted.

"Of course," I murmured, making a note in my book. The repulsion runes were standard, but they were isolated. They worked on their own, each rune a separate entity. If the orcs were learning to work together, those isolated repulsion wards would only be a temporary deterrent at best. They needed to be connected, their energy flowing through the entire wall like a single system.

"And those catapults over there?" I gestured toward the massive siege weapons lined along the wall, their wood frames braced with iron and etched with runes of their own.

The craftsman's chest puffed out slightly. "Ah, those are our pride. The runes strengthen the wood, make the catapults nearly indestructible. They also enhance the payload—when we fire, it's not just rocks and stones. We can shoot fire, energy blasts, all manner of things. Anything the orcs throw at us, we throw back a hundredfold."

I examined one of the catapults up close, running my hand along the wood, feeling the hum of magic beneath the surface. It was impressive, I'd give them that. But there was a rigidity to it, a kind of static power that could only be released in one burst at a time. Useful in a siege, but predictable in a prolonged battle. The orcs wouldn't be deterred by one grand show of force—they'd come in waves, testing the wall's defenses until they found a weakness.

"I see," I said, my mind already spinning with ideas. "You've done fine work here. But... I think we can do better."

The craftsman grunted, folding his arms. "Better how?"

"Flexibility," I replied, holding up my notebook to show them a rough sketch of a revised rune sequence. "The runes you're using are powerful, but they're working in isolation. Each ward is its own separate entity. What I'm proposing is a system where the energy flows between the runes, reinforcing one another. If one point is attacked, the entire system shifts to compensate. Think of it like... a web. The more pressure you apply in one area, the stronger the surrounding parts become."

The men looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Lucius, standing a few steps behind me, nodded in approval, though I could tell he was waiting for their reaction as much as I was.

"And what about the catapults?" one of the younger craftsmen asked.

"They need to do more than just fire off single blasts," I said, tapping the side of the catapult with my knuckles. "What if the runes could adapt mid-battle? Channel different types of energy depending on the threat? You're using static fire or energy blasts now, but with the right runes, you could adapt them to freeze, burn, or even electrocute the enemy, depending on what you need in the moment."

The craftsmen exchanged glances, clearly unsure of how to react. The older man finally spoke again, his tone a little less gruff than before. "You've got a lot of ideas, Master Goodchild. But ideas are one thing. Making them work is another."

I grinned. "Well, then. Let's get to work, shall we?"

The next few days were a blur of sketches, rune etchings, and long discussions with the craftsmen and soldiers stationed at the wall. I stayed in a guardhouse nearby, sleeping in short, restless intervals between bouts of fevered work. There was something intoxicating about it—about taking the old magic, the centuries of tradition that had built this wall, and reshaping it into something new. Something better.

The soldiers were still wary of me at first, but as they saw the changes start to take shape, their attitudes began to shift. I wasn't just here to tear down their work—I was making it stronger. More resilient. And they, whether they admitted it or not, were beginning to appreciate that.

I spent hours each day meticulously copying the runes already in place, making detailed notes of their structure and design. Some of them were simple reinforcement runes, designed to spread out the force of any impact across the entire wall. Others were more complex, producing a magical barrier that would repel anyone—or anything—trying to scale the wall. But they were all independent of one another, each rune its own isolated defense.

That wouldn't do.

By the second day, I had begun connecting the runes, carving new lines of power between them that allowed the energy to flow through the entire system. It was a delicate process—too much power in one place, and the runes would overload, shattering the stone they were meant to protect. Too little, and the runes would be ineffective. But as I worked, I could feel the pieces falling into place, the magic humming beneath my fingers like a living thing.

I also spent time with the military craftsmen, showing them how to adapt their runes to the catapults and other siege weapons. The younger craftsmen, especially, were eager to learn, asking questions and offering suggestions of their own. The older ones were more resistant, but even they couldn't deny the effectiveness of the changes.

The catapults, now etched with adaptive runes, could switch between different types of energy depending on the situation. Fire for long-range attacks, ice for slowing down advancing troops, lightning for taking out heavily armored orcs. It was a system that allowed for flexibility in battle—something the orcs wouldn't expect.

At night, when the soldiers and craftsmen had retired to their quarters, I would sit by the wall, my notebook in hand, sketching out new ideas for the next day's work. The valley below was quiet, but I knew that wouldn't last. The orcs were out there, somewhere beyond the horizon, biding their time. And when they came, they'd find a wall that wasn't just impenetrable—it was alive with power.

As the days passed, I found myself growing more and more attached to the project. This wall wasn't just a defense—it was a testament to what magic could do, to what I could do. And when the time came for the orcs to attack, I would be ready. Not just with the runes I had carved into the stone, but with a mind sharpened by every lesson I had learned since I arrived in this city.

On the final night, I stood atop the wall, looking out over the valley as the sun dipped below the horizon. The soldiers were changing shifts, their armor clinking softly in the cool night air. The wall beneath my feet thrummed with magic, a low, steady hum that echoed the pulse of the city itself.

Lucius approached me, his expression unreadable. "It's done, then?"

I nodded, my gaze still fixed on the distant mountains. "It's done. The wall's ready for whatever the orcs throw at it."

Lucius stood beside me in silence for a moment, then placed a hand on my shoulder. "Let's hope it's enough."

I didn't respond. Because deep down, I knew that no wall—no matter how strong—was truly invincible. But this wall, with its newfound power and adaptability, was as close as we were going to get.

And when the orcs came, they'd find out just how dangerous it was to underestimate me.