The next morning. Near the city gates.
The stone walls rose high, weathered but strong. Guards moved steadily along the top, their footsteps even, eyes scanning the horizon with quiet focus. A few stood still, peering through binoculars at the lines below.
Three long queues stretched out from the gates. People stood close together, moving slowly, their faces drawn. Most were silent. Some whispered prayers. A few held hands tightly, not speaking.
The city was nearly at capacity. Since yesterday morning, more than ten million had entered.
Anyone carrying a valid ID from Sagnik or its allied kingdoms was granted entry. Nobles and envoys from distant nations had been allowed in as well.
Now, most of them were leaving. They had offered their final respects to King Aariv.
They passed in silence—no words, no farewells. Just quiet steps on stone.
Suddenly, a horn echoed through the morning air.
Thirty soldiers burst out from the gate, led by a commander. Their faces were tight, serious. They didn't stop to explain.
The gatekeepers turned to each other, nodding.
Moments later, more soldiers followed — nearly forty this time. The guards on the walls moved quickly, some rushing to other towers.
One of the gatekeepers looked up at a wall guard and made a gesture with his hand.
The guard responded — he raised a fist, then opened it wide with fingers spread, then dropped the hand and moved away quickly.
The gatekeepers stiffened.
That signal was clear:
Under threat. Be alert.
Still, they stayed calm.
Far down the lines, something shifted.
People near the edge of the crowd began turning. Heads tilted. Murmurs rose. Then came the sound of hooves — heavy, deliberate.
The line parted instinctively. A path formed.
Riders appeared. Their armor was black, covered in sharp metal spikes. There were over twenty-five of them. In the center, they escorted a black carriage, its windows shut tight.
Each rider had a mark on his chestplate — two orange eyes staring out.
The sigil of Narkhazhir.
A name known even in distant corners. A warning told in low voices. A kingdom that once burned half the world.
The gatekeepers saw it. The wall guards saw it.
Their hands moved to their swords.
The riders stopped in front of the gate.
Tension filled the air.
One soldier dismounted. His blade was already drawn—fresh blood smeared across the steel.
He walked forward slowly and spoke.
"You think gatekeepers can stand in our way?" he asked. His voice was low, but it carried weight.
The gatekeepers didn't answer.
They moved into a loose stance — full of gaps. Easy to break. Or so it seemed.
One of them — tall, dark-eyed — breathed in deep. The scent of morning dust filled his lungs. A memory rose with it.
A day before. Night time.
The city was hushed. No bells. No footsteps. Just the soft thrum of torches cracking against stone.
Inside a narrow chamber beneath the eastern tower, the gatekeepers stood in silence — five of them, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed slightly. The room was bare: no weapons, no banners. Only a single flame in the center brazier and the scent of ash and oil.
A man stood before them. Broad-shouldered. Hair graying at the edges. His voice was low, worn from years of command.
"Tomorrow," he said, pacing slowly, "we'll see the face of Narkhazhir."
He stopped before the five. "But they won't see our army."
The gatekeepers said nothing.
"We'll have archers waiting. Hidden." The commander looked at them, his face hard. "But they won't be the bait. You will."
A pause.
"You'll take the front. You'll wear the stance of gatekeepers. Careless. Just another wall decoration with a blade."
One of them, the tallest of the five, finally spoke. "And if they see through it?"
"They won't." The commander's reply was quiet. "Because they don't see you. Not really. They see guards. Gatekeepers. They'll dismiss you, and they'll strike. That's when we spring the trap."
He turned to a small chest behind him and opened it. One by one, he handed each gatekeeper a worn, iron medallion — scarred with time, cold to the touch.
Each man took it in silence. They knew what it meant.
"Hold them close," the commander said. "This is your reward now. If the enemy gets through you, the whole city pays."
Another pause. Then:
"No one's going to sing for you. No statues. No names carved into marble." He stepped closer. "But if you fall the right way, they'll never forget the wall you became."
The shortest among the five smirked faintly. "Sounds like a good death."
"Make sure it's not." The commander's tone cut through. "You fall only when you must."
Outside, the night wind howled through the slits in the stone. Inside, the torchlight flickered against their faces, shadows dancing like spirits over their armor.
The commander took a breath. "One more thing."
He looked each man in the eye.
"When they attack... don't strike first. Don't flinch. Hold the breath. Let them swing."
They nodded, one by one.
Back to the present. Near the city gate.
The black-armored soldier from Narkhazhir stood tall, his sword glistening with fresh blood. The five posing gatekeepers didn't flinch.
They held their shaky stances. The enemy smiled — mocking. He stepped forward.
Suddenly — a blur of motion. A wave of thirty soldiers poured from inside the gates, led by a captain.
They rushed between the fake gatekeepers and the enemy riders, shields up, swords drawn.
"Move aside!" the captain shouted. "We'll take the front."
The lead gatekeeper, a man named Velk, didn't respond. His face stayed blank. But inside, his mind raced.
"This wasn't the plan."
"Did no one tell him the trap was already set?"
The gatekeepers tensed. They had one job — to draw the enemy forward into a trap. The archers were watching. The enemy had taken the bait.
Now the captain had stepped right into it.
Too late to stop now.