I have stood on this wall before. I know the sound the stones make when something heavy is testing them. I know what a morning after a battle looks like.
Three weeks ago, King Aldric's rider found me bringing in the last of the harvest. The wall commander is dead, he said. The Kingdom needs you once more.
I served seven years here. I earned my deed, went home, built a life. I believed I was finished with this place.
I was wrong. The wall is mine now.
They arrive every year — volunteers from farms, villages, and the City alike, drawn by the same promise that first brought me here.
Serve seven years at the wall. Hold the line. Come home a hero — with a land deed from the crown and your name in the tavern songs.
Most will not last seven years. They know this. They come anyway — some betting on themselves, some simply knowing that if the wall falls, everyone they love dies with it.
They are counting on me now. I have stood on this wall. I have never commanded it. There is a difference.
Every year, the faces change. The wall does not.
Each cohort arrives full of hope and uncertainty, stares out at the valley floor, and wonders if they have what it takes to last seven years.
Some will. Most won't. And a handful — if they are strong enough, lucky enough, and led well enough — hope to become...
