Chapter Sixteen: The Fraying Walls

Dawn brought little warmth. The gates of Estreth still groaned under their chains, smoke rising faintly from the scorched ground beyond. Soldiers moved with hollow eyes, repairing shattered beams, sweeping away ashes that refused to scatter.

Arlo watched from the steps of the hall. The air smelled of old iron, though no metal burned. Doggy sat stiff in his lap, its wooden surface dulled after the night’s strange glow.

Callan returned from helping mend a barricade, his hands raw. He crouched beside Arlo, speaking low. “Two dead, three more wounded. And that’s with walls and Charter-marks to protect them.”

Arlo said nothing. His throat ached, as if he’d been screaming all night, though he hadn’t.

Inside the hall, the Charter Mage — Mistress Tareth — called them to her table. Her robes were singed, her hair falling loose, but her eyes were sharp.

“The Dead came in numbers unusual for this far south,” she said. “And they weren’t wandering. They moved as though summoned.”

Her gaze fell on Arlo. Not cruel, but heavy.

“Your boy is… touched,” she said carefully. “Whatever that toy is, it carries marks older than my knowledge. I will not force you to remain, Callan. But you must understand—if you stay, the Dead will return.”

Callan’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll go.”

Arlo’s stomach lurched. The garrison had felt safe, even after the attack. But the look in Tareth’s eyes told him safety was an illusion.

They prepared to leave by midday, joined by a small escort to the road. The soldiers were relieved, though too polite to say it. Arlo caught their glances: gratitude mixed with unease.

But as they passed the north gate, a new sound rose.

Not groans, not clawing.
A low, steady hum — like breath against glass.

Beyond the palisade, a shape drifted across the field. At first it seemed a man, tall and cloaked. But as the wind shifted, Arlo saw it was no man at all.

The figure was hollow. Its robes clung to nothing, its face a mask of chalk-white bone carved with spirals. It moved without steps, sliding forward as though the world bent to its will.

The escort faltered. Mistress Tareth hissed a word, Charter marks flaring around her staff. The creature paused, its mask tilting toward them.

Doggy twitched in Arlo’s arms. A single mark sparked above its head — faint, weak, but enough.

The mask-creature shivered, spirals unraveling like smoke. Then it was gone, leaving only the hum fading into silence.

Mistress Tareth lowered her staff, her face pale. “That was no Dead. Nor Free Magic I’ve seen. Something else wears the world thin.”

She looked again at Arlo. “Go quickly. And do not stop until you reach safer ground.”

Arlo clutched Doggy tight as they passed through the gate. He felt no safer on the open road — only more certain that whatever hunted them would not give up.

And deep inside, a thought whispered that chilled him:

The mask hadn’t looked at the garrison.
It had looked at him.