Chapter Eleven: The Spiral at the Wall

The pale figure didn’t move at first.
It only watched.

Arlo pressed his hand against the window’s cold frame, feeling the throb of Charter marks etched into the stone. They should have flared at the creature’s presence. They didn’t.

Doggy’s glow grew brighter — not a warm, golden light, but a sharper, star-like white that cut against the moonless dark.

The spiral-eyed shape leaned forward.

It touched the wall.

The Charter marks nearest its hand shivered and went dull.

Arlo gasped, the sound barely more than a breath.

From the cot, Callan stirred. “What—?”

Before Arlo could answer, the creature’s head snapped toward him.

It spoke.

Not in the tongue of the Dead, nor in the harsh buzz of Free Magic. It was a single phrase, layered over itself, as if a hundred mouths whispered in unison:

North and deep, boy.

The spirals seemed to pull at his eyes.

You carry a key.

Arlo stumbled back from the window.

The scraping began again, moving along the wall toward the gate.

Callan was at his side now, one hand gripping the hilt of his short sword. “Arlo—what did it say?”

Arlo’s voice felt thin in his throat. “It knows about Doggy.”

Doggy’s glow dimmed, but the toy’s carved eyes still shone faintly.

They dressed quickly and went to the gatehouse. The night guard was half-asleep at his post, claiming he’d heard nothing. But when Callan climbed the ladder to the wall, he saw them:

A line of spirals etched into the frost, stretching from the base of the wall into the dark beyond. Each one perfect, unbroken, and pulsing faintly with stolen Charter-light.

“Messages?” Callan murmured.

Arlo shook his head. “Not for us.”

By dawn, the spirals had melted — leaving no sign they’d ever been there.

But the wall’s wards still felt wrong.

And somewhere beyond the ridge, the Ash Man was already moving north.