The meeting started with a squeal. The sound came from Trevor’s chalk scratching across the enormous slate board someone had dragged into the old council room. The board was nearly as tall as he was and twice as wide, repurposed from a shuttered schoolhouse at Alexander’s insistence. Now it leaned precariously against the wall as Trevor sketched, erased, and re-sketched so aggressively that chalk dust drifted like fog.
Alexander sat at the end of the long oak table, legs stretched out, arms loosely crossed over his chest. He looked less like a builder and more like a craftsman caught between jobs: sleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, hair tied back with a leather thong, his ever graying beard. The only thing that marked him as anything special was his attention—sharp, focused, weighing every line Trevor drew like it mattered.
Across from him, Viktor, Captain of the Guards, leaned back in his chair with military casualness. His armor—well-maintained but clearly lived-in—caught the lamplight. The guards flanking him were less relaxed; they stood along the walls, hands hovering near sword hilts, eyes flicking to the lone window and the single heavy door out of habit.
“Right,” Trevor muttered, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he drew. “So we’ve got the existing wall here—” He dragged the chalk in a jagged line. “Which is, frankly, an insult to walls. It’s a suggestion of a wall.”
“One might argue it’s kept us alive,” Viktor said dryly. “Kept most of us alive,” Alexander corrected, not unkindly. The room quieted for a beat.
Alexander didn’t raise his voice; he never needed to. Even in this informal setting, his presence pressed gently on everyone. Not with authority, exactly, but with gravity—like a stone dropped in water, creating ripples that pulled attention toward him. Trevor cleared his throat, erased a crooked corner with his sleeve, leaving a gray smear on his already stained shirt. “Fair enough. Keeps some things out, but it could be better. And that’s what we’re here for.” He turned, pointing the chalk at Viktor. “We’re not insulting your guards, Captain. Just the wall they’ve been stuck with.”
Viktor’s mouth twitched. “You’ve never seen what my men can do with a flawed wall, Foreman.” “Oh, I have,” Trevor said. “They hold it anyway. That’s the problem.” Alexander’s boot tapped once against the floor. “Let’s start at the top,” he said. “Parapets.” Trevor turned back to the board and tore into it again. “Parapets,” he echoed. “Current layout: narrow, inconsistent height, poor drainage, no proper cover, and barely wide enough for one guard to walk without turning sideways.” He drew a stick figure on the wall—its shoulders hanging off either side of the line. Then he added a helmet and a spear and a cartoon frown. The nearest guard snorted before catching himself.
“You do see the humor in making us look like badly drawn goblins, I hope,” Viktor said. Trevor shrugged. “You’re heroic goblins. Look.” He added a cape to the figure with a flourish. Alexander suppressed a smile. “Trevor.” “Right, serious,” Trevor muttered. He erased the cape. “Proposal: widen the parapets by three feet along the main approaches, two feet along the secondary sections.”
“That’s a lot of stone,” Viktor observed. Alexander nodded. “We can do it.” Trevor continued. “We add waist-high inner walls on the city side, chest-high crenellations facing outward. Proper merlons with arrow slits, drainage channels to prevent ice, and—” He circled a little square along the parapet. “Guard stations every sixty yards.” Viktor leaned forward, interest sharpening his features. “Stations how?”
Trevor glanced at Alexander. “Tell him,” Alexander said, shifting forward in his chair. “You’ve been working this out for weeks.” Trevor straightened. He always stood a little taller when Alexander said something like that. “Guard stations that double as rest points and tactical hubs. Stone alcoves recessed into the inner side of the parapet—roofed, with hooks for lanterns, racks for weapons, and benches. Enough space for four guards and a sergeant to cluster and not get skewered by arrows while they’re planning how not to die.” Viktor’s brows rose. “Roofed? That’ll break the line of sight along the wall.”
“We shape them low and on the city side,” Alexander said. “Won’t interfere with movement or sight outward. The stations will give your people somewhere to breathe, reload, or rally if a section gets overrun.” “And to gossip,” one of the younger guards muttered in the back. “You already do that,” Viktor said without turning. “At least this way you’ll be gossiping behind stone.”
“We’re not building for gossip,” Alexander said, but his eyes warmed. “We’re building for endurance. Your men are strong, but they’re not stone themselves.” Trevor drew a little square, shaded it, then added stick guards inside it. One was lying on a bench with ‘zzz’ emerging from his face. “Please erase that,” Viktor said. Trevor did, grinning. Alexander steepled his fingers. “Viktor, walk us through how your men actually use the wall during an alarm. Not what they’re supposed to do. What they do.” Viktor caught the nuance and adjusted his posture. He wasn’t here as a symbol; he was here as someone whose experience mattered.
“We are actually very nearly doing what we’re supposed to,” Viktor began, then stopped himself and exhaled. “When the alarm sounds, we funnel to the nearest staircases, which are—” “A disaster,” Trevor interjected. Viktor ignored him. “They bottleneck. You know this. Men shove past one another, shields knock spears from hands. We lose minutes just getting bodies up top.” Alexander nodded, gaze intent. “Once they’re up there?”
“Current parapet is too narrow,” Viktor said. “Archers find whatever space they can, sometimes climbing onto crenellations just to shoot over each other. Melee fighters end up half hanging off the city side. It’s… ugly, when things get serious.”
“And when things get very serious?” Alexander pressed. “Then we adapt.” Viktor paused, jaw tightening. “We use ladders on the inner side to get archers higher. We tie ropes to anchor points for men to lean out. We station runners down below with replacement equipment because we can’t store it on top. We use what we have.”
Trevor’s hand slowed. He stopped drawing and just listened. Alexander’s eyes had gone distant, not absent but calculating, matching Viktor’s words to what he’d seen himself during last year’s raid. “Your men are solving problems the wall should be solving,” Alexander said quietly. Viktor absorbed that, then nodded once. “Yes.” Trevor turned to the chalkboard again with new intensity. “All right. Wider parapets. Guard stations. Storage alcoves for spare arrows, spears, and water along the inner side. Hooks for rope, brackets for shields. And—” He hesitated.
Alexander raised an eyebrow. “And?” Trevor took a breath. “I want to run channels underneath the parapet stones. Narrow tunnels. Not big enough for a man, but wide enough to haul supplies on rails from tower to tower.”
The room went still. “A rat’s highway,” one of the guards said. “A lifeline,” Trevor countered. “You get cut off on one section, you can still get arrows and bandages from the next tower over. No more sprinting along open wall with your arms full of quivers while someone tries to make you an ex-person.” Alexander’s eyes flickered with interest. “Rails. How would you move the crates?”
“Counterweights.” Trevor drew little squares under the wall line, then thin tracks. “We set pulleys in the towers, run cords along the underside of the parapets. Crates hang, you pull, they slide on little wheels. No more exposed runners during heavy fire.” Viktor rubbed his chin. “Sounds like something that will break when we most need it.”
“All things break,” Alexander said. “We design it so when it does, the system fails safe. Crates lock,” he added, glancing at Trevor, “instead of dropping on someone’s head.” Trevor grimaced. “There was that one incident with the scaffolding—” “We will not discuss the scaffolding,” Viktor said, though his lips twitched. Alexander leaned forward. “We can test it tower by tower. Small scale. See how your men use it, what they curse about.”
“They will curse,” Viktor assured him. “Even if it works perfectly.” “Then we’ve done our job,” Alexander said. “If they have enough breath left to complain, they’re still alive.”
Trevor smirked. “He puts that on the posters, you know.” Alexander shot him a side look. “We don’t have posters.” “Yet,” Trevor said, returning to the board.
Alexander shifted the conversation. “Gates.” The word put a subtle edge into the room. The guards’ shoulders squared; Viktor’s eyes hardened. Gates were where cities bled. Alexander’s voice remained calm. “Walk me through your worst-case scenario, Viktor. Not what you tell recruits. What keeps you up at night.”
Trevor silently erased a section of the board, clearing space. Viktor didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his tone had lost its earlier humor. “Worst case? Enemy uses a distraction on the wall, sends a smaller, faster unit straight for the main gate. They’ve scouted us. They know our response time. They carry fire, or someone with enough balls and a ram to make the hinges scream.” Trevor drew the gate as a simple rectangle. He shaded the hinge. Alexander watched Viktor more than the drawing.
“Current gatehouse?” Alexander asked. “Too open,” Viktor said. “We’ve got heavy doors, good inner bracing. But the kill zone on the outer side is half-hearted. No proper murder holes, limited drop points, no secondary gate. If they break the first set of doors, we’re fighting them in the street.”
“We can fix that,” Alexander said. Trevor’s chalk moved fast, turning the rectangle into a layered gatehouse. “Double doors. Outer gate with thick timber and iron bands. Inner gate offset slightly, creating a choke. Between them: kill zone. Narrow. Controlled by archers on top and flanking positions inside. Add murder holes—here, here—” He tapped the drawing. “Slots for spears from the sides, harness points for boiling oil or, more realistically, very unpleasant sand.”
“Sand?” one of the guards asked. “Hot sand,” Trevor clarified. “It gets everywhere. Inside armor, eyes, mouths. Oil’s dramatic, but logistically stupid. You want something we can store all year, not worry about catching our own men on fire.” Viktor considered this. “I’ll miss the drama,” he said. “But I’ll take effectiveness.” Alexander nodded. “Secondary gate behind the first. Heavy, slightly recessed. Gives you a fallback if the outer door fails.”
“And on the inside,” Trevor added, “we widen the space just beyond the gate, but only a little. Enough for defenders to maneuver, not enough for attackers to form proper ranks if they get through.” He drew a narrow street flaring slightly where it met the inner gate, then constricting again.
“That street’s already there,” Alexander said. “We just need to reshape it.” Viktor frowned. “We’ll have to tear down some shops.” Alexander’s expression shifted with a touch of regret. “We’ll talk to the owners. Offer compensation. They’ll understand what it means in a siege.”
“They’ll complain,” Trevor said. “But they’ll take the coin. Or the new shops in safer streets. You know how it goes. Alexander did. He could already see those conversations—angry at first, then quiet. “Defense concerns,” he said, pulling the conversation wider. “We’re talking stone and lines, but I want to know how your men feel up there, Viktor. Do they feel exposed? Claustrophobic? Do they trust the wall?”
Viktor thought. “They trust each other,” he said slowly. “They trust their training. The wall?” His mouth tightened. “They respect it. But they don’t trust it.” Trevor stopped mid-scribble. Chalk tapped once against the board. “Because it’s failed before.” Viktor’s silence was answer enough.
Alexander folded his hands. His knuckles were scarred; he never wore gloves unless he had to. “Then that’s our real project,” he said. “Not stone, not rails, not parapets. Trust.” Trevor glanced back at him. The guards shifted subtly, closer to listening than to standing watch.
“You think they’ll suddenly feel better because the walkway’s wider?” Viktor asked. “No,” Alexander said. “I think they’ll feel better when they see we’ve built with them in mind. When they notice the hooks are where they reach, the stations are where they rest, the murder holes are where they need them. When they recognize that we weren’t building a monument—they were the blueprint.”
Trevor blinked. “That’s new,” he said. “You rehearsed that?” Alexander shrugged. “You ask me about stone. I think about people.” “He says sappy things when the budget comes through,” Trevor murmured to the board. “We are going to talk about the budget,” Viktor warned. “We will,” Alexander agreed. “But not before we finish the plan. If the plan is good, the coin follows.” “Sometimes the coin goes elsewhere,” Viktor said. Alexander met his eyes. “Not this time.” The quiet conviction in his tone settled something, if not in the room, then at least in Trevor. The foreman squared his shoulders and began annotating the drawing with little notes: stone thickness, estimated material volume, labor crews per segment.
“General suggestions,” Alexander said, opening the floor. “For the wall around Ar. This is not a formal council. No one gets punished for speaking freely.”
Trevor lifted the chalk. “I do, sometimes.” “You get lectured,” Alexander corrected. “There’s a difference.” “Feels the same,” Trevor said.
One of the guards, older, with a scar cutting across his cheek, cleared his throat. Everyone turned. “Sir,” he said to Viktor first, then to Alexander. “The wind.” Alexander gestured lightly. “Go on.” “The wind up there,” the guard said. “It cuts through. Freezes fingers, ears. Makes bows shake and men stupid. Maybe you can’t build against arrows without more height and stone, but you can build against the wind. Screens. Something.”
Trevor blinked, then turned to the board with renewed energy. “Short inner windbreaks,” he said. “Segmented. Not enough to block movement, just enough to stop the worst gusts. Stone half-walls at intervals, shaped to deflect.” Viktor nodded slowly. “We lose a little speed running the length. We gain focus.” “We also keep your men from turning into icicles,” Trevor said.
Another guard spoke up. “The stairs. Make them wider, yes, but… can we make them less murderous? Half my bruises are from those stairs.” Trevor scribbled again. “Enclosed stair towers along the inner wall. Wider, with proper railings.”
“We’re not building railings,” Viktor protested. “We’re absolutely building railings,” Alexander said firmly. “I have watched too many men slide down stone like sacks of grain.” “The railings make it feel less like a fortress,” Viktor said. “The ability to walk without breaking your neck makes it feel more like a place where humans live,” Alexander replied. Trevor grinned. “He’s particularly passionate about stairs this year. Don’t ask.” “He saw Old Jorren slip last month,” Viktor said quietly. Trevor’s grin faded. “Right. Yeah.” He drew the stair tower with extra care.
Alexander pushed up from his chair, walking closer to the chalkboard. He studied the evolving chaos of lines, notes, little stick figures, lanes and alcoves and towers. There was nothing grand about Trevor’s drawing; it was functional, messy, with erasures everywhere. But it was also something else: intentional. “This will take time,” Viktor said behind him. “And we’ll be exposed in places while you add all this.” Alexander didn’t look away from the board. “We phase it. Segment by segment. Never more than one vulnerable stretch at a time. We schedule the work around your drills, your patrols, your harvest season.”
“That’s a lot of coordination,” Viktor said. “That’s what Trevor is here for,” Alexander replied. Trevor snorted. “That’s what I’m here for, sweating over chalk while your Captain points out how everything I build breaks under siege.”
“That’s his job,” Alexander said. “Yours is to listen and make sure it breaks less.” “And yours?” Viktor asked. Alexander finally turned. “Mine is to take the weight when something does break,” he said. “And make sure we learn enough so it doesn’t break the same way twice.” Trevor’s eyes softened, just for a moment.
The foreman wiped a patch of chalk with his already ruined sleeve and added one last note along the top of the drawing: *Phase One: Trust the Wall*.
“Too sentimental,” Viktor said. Trevor shrugged. “We can rename it for the paperwork. Phase One: ‘Structural Reinforcement Initiative’.” Alexander smiled. “And yet,” he said, pointing to the chalk words, “you wrote the real name.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Trevor said gruffly. “Next phase is going to be called ‘Who Approved This Budget?’” “They’ll ask that,” Viktor agreed. “They always ask that,” Alexander said. “We’ll be ready with an answer. And drawings.” “And sand,” Trevor added. “Hot sand.”
One of the guards coughed. “Sirs… does this mean we’re getting those guard stations with benches?” Trevor nodded toward the board. “Every sixty yards.” “And hooks for lanterns?” another asked. “And racks for weapons,” Trevor said. “And spots for gossip.” Viktor’s shoulders eased a fraction, something like pride—reluctant but present—moving behind his eyes. “If you build it,” he said, “we’ll use it.”
Alexander nodded once, accepting the pact. “Then let’s begin.” Trevor turned back to the board, chalk at the ready, as Alexander and Viktor stepped closer. Builder, foreman, captain, and guards all studying the same rough lines of stone and steel that would, if they did it right, be less of a wall and more of a promise.
Outside, Ar’s existing wall stood in the fading evening light—a ring of battered stone, scarred by years, patched and weary. It wasn’t a bad wall, not truly. It had done its duty. Inside, on the chalkboard in a dusty council room, an improved wall began to exist in lines and smudges and passing jokes. Wider parapets. Guard stations. Murder holes. Windbreaks. Stairs with railings, no matter what Viktor said. And beneath all that, in the way Alexander listened, Trevor adjusted, and Viktor challenged, something more important was forming:
The idea that the people of Ar were worth building for in detail. Not as numbers on a ledger or units on a map, but as men who bruised on stairs, froze in wind, and gossiped in alcoves when death grew close. Trevor shaded one last segment of wall and stepped back. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go make this expensive.”
Alexander chuckled, low and brief. “Let’s go make it strong.” Viktor added, “Let’s go make it something my men will curse about for the right reasons.” In the end, that was how walls were truly measured—not in height or thickness, but in how the people who stood on them felt about dying there.
If Alexander had his way, the Wall of Ar would become a place they might actually live on, too.
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