321: Battlements Watch 🔥🏰
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🔥 The Watch
The brazier hissed as a fresh gust of wind swept up from the valley, scattering snowflakes like ash. Captain Elian stood beside it, gloved hands wrapped around a tin cup of broth gone lukewarm. The battlements beneath his boots were slick with frost, the limestone pale and pitted, worn by centuries of weather and war.
Below, the road curved like a ribbon of shadow down through the snowbound valley, disappearing into the forest. No movement. No sound. Just the slow drift of flakes and the distant creak of trees under their icy burden. He had stood this watch every winter solstice for the past eleven years. No one had come up that road in decades, but he had a promise to keep.
The last time these gates tasted war, he was a young, promising recruit, holding the wall. In the heat of battle, with the forest burning and the sky red with smoke, his father and older brother sallied out with the cavalry towards the enemy siege troops. They all vanished in the fire. Not a body. Not a trace. Just a final shout through the smoke: “Hold the gate. We’ll be back.”
Most called it madness, this vigil. The castle was a relic, its halls empty save for a few stubborn stewards and the old archivist who still copied scrolls by candlelight. But when not training fresh conscripts, Elian kept watch all year, lighting the brazier, watching the road. Tonight, something felt different, something shifted.
A flicker beyond the tree line. No torchlight. Just a shadowy figure, in contrast to the snow, trudging slowly up the valley road. Elian set down his cup. His breath caught in his throat. The figure drew closer. Cloaked. Hooded. Leaning heavily on a staff. When the traveler reached the base of the battlements, Elian called down. “Who walks the valley road?”
The figure looked up. A woman’s voice, hoarse but clear: “One who remembers.” She looked familiar. He barked the order to let her in. She entered through the old gate and climbed the tower staircase onto the platform. She approached slowly, boots crunching in the snow, and when she reached the brazier, she pulled back her hood. Her face was lined, her eyes sharp.
Elian exhaled deeply as he recognised the lieutenant. He couldn’t speak. “I was with them,” she said. “The night the forest burned.” She sighed, exhaling a cloud of warm breath into the cold air. “We managed to route the bastards, but on our way back, we fell into a mercenary trap. We were winded and fought as hard as we could, but got captured, and those who survived were taken to the far east.
“We got sold as a group, a gladiator troop made to fight in the arenas of those savages.” She gritted her teeth. “To them, we were the barbarians.” She looked into the brazier and said, “Your father led us well, but as he grew old, he eventually fell into the pit.” A tear managed to escape down her face. “Your brother took over. He pushed us forward victoriously and bought us freedom, one by one.”
“He kept promising that someone was waiting for us back home. He made us write letters not to be sent but kept for hope.” She took off her backpack and brought out a bunch of maps and letters bound in twine. She handed him the bundle. Letters in Daran’s hand. Dated. Traced with soot and marked with drops of sweat and blood.
Elian read them by brazier light, tears freezing on his cheeks. The last one ended “I’ll be back. Keep the fire lit.” “Where is he?” he muttered, choking. The woman looked into his eyes. “I don’t know. I was among the last to be freed. He was still alive, championing his way back.” She fell silent and looked down the road into the distance, watching the snow fall.
The captain reread the letters, trembling, weeping silently, gripping the twine tightly, muttering, “Dad .. brother.” The wind shifted, spirals of snow settling softly on the brazier rim, melting into the heat. He stood there in the hush, feeling the old promise echo in his chest. By the time his breath steadied, the eastern sky began to pale.
