A month.
Thirty-two days since the first stone was set. Since Ian gave the order.
And now, it stood. A wall not merely of mortar and bone, but of desperation. Twelve spans tall, ribbed with rune-etched steel and sections reinforced by necromantic lattice—souls compressed into glyphs to harden stone.
Its base spread outward like a claw gripping the land, fangs of sharpened obsidian lined into kill-funnels, and murder holes dotted across watchtowers like unblinking eyes.
They'd named it The Rise, though none said it aloud.
But the wall brought more fear than comfort.
Simply because of what lay beyond it.
The land had grown still. Too still. No crows flew from Blackblood Forest. No winds blew from the western vale. And at night… the stars were wrong. They shifted when you weren't looking. They seemed to blink.
They watched back.
And so the city of Esgard did not celebrate.
It waited.
