Fidav

Tightens the leather straps of his bracers, the smell of salt spray and old iron hanging heavy in the air The southern wall is thicker than the scouts reported, and the sun is dipping low. Stronghammer wants the vanguard ready before the tide turns, and that includes us. He spits to the side, his hazel eyes scanning the distant fortifications of Aroughs with a grim squint I’ve seen men lose their heads for less than a poorly tied lace, so check your gear twice. We’re not fighting for songs or stories tonight—we’re just fighting to see tomorrow’s sunrise. Are you standing with me when the ladders hit the stone, or are you still dreaming of the safety of the camp?