The air was cold atop the wall, even though the sun was just beginning its slow climb into the sky. Crescent City sprawled behind them, its medieval stone streets quiet in the dawn haze. Out front, however, stretched the wild—the dense, twisted tree line of the Forest of Trials, still shrouded in mist and long shadows. Swift adjusted his grip on Excalibur, slinging the long, cumbersome musket across his back once again.

  He hadn’t slept much. Not because of nerves, but because of doubt.

  His weapon—despite its intimidating presence—was laughably inaccurate. After weeks at the range, he still couldn't land a consistent shot past fifty steps. A spear with a temper, and the explosive bark of a small cannon. Excalibur looked the part, but it was unreliable. And unreliability got people killed.

  Especially today.

  “You alright, Knife-boy?” one of the recruits called out. It was Tanner, broad-shouldered and smirking, a scattergun cradled in his arms. “Or you worried your broomstick’s gonna blow you off the wall?”

  A few snickers followed.

  Swift didn’t rise to the bait. Tanner’s weapon was about as effective as his from up here. He simply leaned on the battlement and scanned the forest line, eyes sharp. “Just wondering if you know the difference between cover and concealment yet.”

  More laughs, though a few were directed at Tanner this time. Some of the other recruits were perched nearby, their expressions mixed. Boredom, anxiety, bravado—every one of them dealing with the weight of expectation in their own way.

  It was going to be a long day.

  Hours passed.

  Some lounged with their feet up, others cleaned their weapons obsessively. A few tried to nap sitting upright. Occasionally, someone would crack a joke, and the laughter would ripple through the line. No one could sit in silence for too long, not when the wall overlooked a forest that could erupt with undead at any moment.

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  Swift remained mostly quiet. Watching. Thinking. He considered barrel harmonics. Recoil control. Whether wrapping cloth around Excalibur’s stock might help reduce the shock on his shoulder. Whether he could make rifling in the barrel by some creative chiseling—or if that would just destroy the weapon.

  The sun slowly dipped toward the horizon.

  “Movement!”

  All heads turned.

  Through the low-hanging mist, shapes emerged from the treeline. Small at first. Shadows. Then clearer.

  A dozen figures moved fast and low, darting between tree trunks. They weren’t running—but they weren’t dawdling either. Their posture told a story: heads low, weapons up, staying close, cautious but confident. No erratic movement. No screaming. No chaos.

  Swift leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. Leading them was a tall, bearded man with a long coat and a cane. His gait was unmistakable.

  “Morrow,” he whispered.

  “Yeah?” a recruit asked nearby.

  “Nothing.”

  Tanner scoffed. “Guess he likes the tall, quiet types.”

  The group reached the clearing before the city walls and paused, checking their surroundings. Swift's finger hovered near the trigger—just in case—but no movement stirred in the trees behind them. No rustling. No groans. No gnarled hands grasping from the underbrush.

  No undead.

  The recruits on the wall watched in silence as the group approached the gates, which opened slowly with a low groan of stone and timber. They entered, Morrow giving a quick wave toward the battlement before disappearing.

  “Well, that was... anticlimactic,” one of the recruits muttered.

  Another whistled low. “Lucky bastards.”

  Tanner scratched his head. “That ain’t how ours went.”

  Swift didn’t say anything. He just kept watching the treeline.

  Something about it bothered him.

  It wasn’t that he wanted there to be a fight—Gods no—but this smooth arrival didn’t feel right. The forest wasn’t forgiving. The undead didn’t just… stay still.

  His gut twisted a little. Something had either scared the corrosion back—or it was just waiting.

  Either way, he didn’t trust it.

  Still, he exhaled. The newbies made it. Good. He’d wanted to see them come through without blood and screams. Especially if Morrow was guiding them again.

  But as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the recruits were dismissed from the wall, Swift kept glancing over his shoulder.

  Something about the forest felt too quiet.

  How did Morrow do it?