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Chapter 824: The Symbol of the Fall

He could see them clearly now, without the telescope.

Men, women, elderly, children. Their clothing hung in strips. They lurched through the snow with the particular exhaustion of people who had been moving for days — weaker than militia, weaker than anything that had ever come down off that mountain. They were nothing.

Nail made his judgment and kept it.

All the same, he held the heavy machine guns within suppression range before approaching alone. “This is the border defense line of the Kingdom of Graycastle!” he shouted. “Do not advance. Halt, or we will fire!

They saw him. They did not stop. They accelerated.

He fired twice into the sky and repeated the warning. They kept coming, waving their arms, crying out.

“Nail, get back!” the veteran bellowed from behind the sandbags. “They don’t know what flintlocks are! Your voice means nothing to them!”

He tried once more — shouted that he would shoot arrows — and that, finally, they understood. They checked their stride. Then, after one trembling moment, pushed forward again, waving both hands, crying out toward the blockhouses.

They were begging.

He stood his ground until his teammates dragged him back to the defensive line. When the first of them crossed the row of stakes, both blockhouses opened at once. The shots dropped into the snow ahead of the crowd, kicking white dust into the air, swallowing their voices in the noise.

Blood appeared among the figures.

The crowd stopped.

Those who had not been hit went to their knees, then flat into the snow, faces pressed down. Terrified — but they would not turn back. Whatever lay behind them was worse.

“Stop! Stop firing!” Nail stripped off his jacket and waved it toward the blockhouses, standing in the open, risking a stray round. The machine guns fell silent. Two more squads came out from the blockhouses at a run.

Moving through air still faintly acrid with powder smoke, Nail led his squad forward in a line, rifles raised, closing the distance.

The figures in the snow trembled and did not move.

“Where are you from?”

Silence.

“Answer the squad leader,” the veteran said sharply. “Silence means spy, and spies hang.”

“My, my—” Someone finally raised their head. “My lord. We came from… Hermes.”

“You’re believers of the Church?” Nail asked.

“Yes. No — no, we are not.” The man pressed his forehead against the snow. “We were deceived. We see it now. The deities did not protect the church. We were wrong. Please — please, some food—”

The plea broke the others open. They cried out all at once.

Please, sir, some oatmeal — my child hasn’t eaten—

The church’s soldiers were behind us — we had to abandon everything—

Three days, my lord, three days without food—

Nail reached for the dried rations at his belt. A hand closed on his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving them food.”

The veteran’s voice dropped. “These are church believers. Our enemies.”

“They were our enemies. Did you not hear them? They admitted they were deceived.”

“When a man is starving, he’ll pray to demons.” The veteran’s lip curled. “At least the Judgement Warriors had conviction. These are just drifters who picked the wrong side and lost.”

“Head, Uncle Sang has a point. Who knows what they made for the church army?”

“Who knows how many of our men they helped kill?”

“They deserve whatever they get.”

Nail drew a slow breath. He raised a hand and the grumbling died.

“You all remember what Border Town was like before His Majesty came. Everyone there was deceived by the church. Every one of us.” He looked at them steadily. “And His Majesty didn’t abandon us or call us traitors for it. So how do we justify turning our backs on these people?” He paused. “Anyone who committed real crimes should face real consequences. But give them food and bring them in for interrogation. That’s what we should do.”

A pause.

“His Majesty also wrote — the Kingdom of Graycastle is a whole. Any person who has committed no crime and is willing to give allegiance to Graycastle is a subject of the king, not an enemy to be left in the snow. If there are innocent people here and we watch them die in front of us, are we honoring his wishes?”

Silence stretched.

The veteran laughed — low, genuine. “Head Nail. Now I understand why Sir Blair put you in charge. You used to lock up entirely whenever you had to speak in front of people. You’ve changed.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Iron Head would be proud.”

He didn’t entirely agree with the principle — Nail could see that plainly. But everyone in the First Army admired the king, and no one opposed the decision outright. “At least don’t throw food at them,” the veteran said practically. “You’ll start a stampede. Pick the worst-off and bring them forward one at a time.”


More soldiers arrived as they worked through the crowd. Among them came Eagle Face — the deputy battalion commander responsible for the Northern Region garrison. A tall man with round eyes and a pointed, beaked mouth that had earned him his name; he had come in with Iron Axe’s earliest militia, one of the best hunters the Western Region had produced. He scanned the scene. “Someone explain this.”

Nail stepped forward and saluted, then gave a brief account.

Eagle Face stroked his chin. “Escaped from the Holy City?” He called a refugee forward. “Tell me what happened in Hermes. Give me details and I’ll see you’re fed.”

The man swallowed several times before he could speak. “The Cathedral of the New Holy City… it collapsed.”

Nail felt the words before he fully understood them.

He had heard since boyhood that the Hermes Cathedral was the symbol of the Church’s permanence — the tallest structure raised by human hands before His Majesty’s own buildings had begun to change that measure. At the start of the autumn fighting under Coldwind Ridge, he had half-allowed himself the private fantasy of one day following the king’s army up onto the plateau and standing at the base of that tower. He had imagined looking up at it.

It was gone?

“A pit opened beneath it,” the refugee said, his voice barely holding. “The whole tower — it just fell. The Judgement Army sealed off the site, but a building that size doesn’t disappear quietly. Everyone felt it. Everyone heard it. They know what it means.” He pressed his palms flat on his thighs. “The church is finished, my lord. The deities have abandoned it. The outer city began to flee first — the masons, the tradesmen. Then the fear spread inward. We got out late, and the Judgement Army caught most of us. Out of hundreds, only we got through.”

“The city itself is in chaos?”

“Yes, my lord. The Southern and Eastern Gates are open and unguarded — the guards themselves ran. I haven’t seen a supply caravan enter the city in a long time. The old Holy City is worse.”

“Dismissed.” Eagle Face nodded to the soldiers. As they led the man away, something lit behind his eyes — restrained but visible. “This is unexpected good news. We may be able to occupy Hermes before the main army even arrives.”

Nail understood why. First commander through the gates of the Holy City — that was the kind of achievement that marked a career. He said nothing about it. His attention stayed on the figures lying in the snow, the unwounded ones, watching the soldiers move through them with hollow, frightened eyes.

He put his concern plainly: if they left these people in the open field overnight and a storm came—

Eagle Face studied him for a moment. “We can’t keep civilians inside the camp,” he said, not unkindly. “Give them tents and rations and let them encamp within the machine guns’ field of cover.”

“In the open? If there’s a storm tonight—”

“My first duty is the security of the First Army.” Eagle Face’s voice was final. “I’ll send word to Duke Kant about accommodating them. Until help arrives from Deepvalley Town, they’ll have to trust their luck.”

He turned back toward the camp.

Nail remained at the line a moment longer, watching the pale sky. The snow had already begun to thicken.

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