Asher stood on snow, watching the sky weep snowflakes.
They had expected the snow to stop in the first or second month of the third year since the war, but it didn’t. It kept falling. Sometimes in a lazy, silken drift that kissed the land with peace. Other times, it fell like the sky was trying to bury the world beneath its sorrow. Six months now, and the snow had not ceased.
His thick coat, dark as mountain stone and padded around the shoulders with heavy white fur from the Icefang Bears of the Northern Rim, draped him like a silent sentinel. His leather-gloved hands gripped the pommel of his Kingsword, the ancient blade driven deep into the snow before him, its wide, crimson blade catching flakes like a steel altar. He stood alone. No BloodBlade. No Paladin.
Just him. On the snow. Watching.
Before him stretched a scene of stubborn resolve, thousands of masons, smiths, and helpers labouring beneath the pale sky to birth the great wall of Ashbourne.
It had been going on for two years and three moons now, and still the wall crawled across the horizon like a stubborn serpent. Progress was slow, how could it not be?
The wall had to encircle the whole of Ashbourne, a nation whose vast, fertile landmass dwarfed most others. Its valleys, its lakes, its mountains, each had to be embraced in stone.
There had been no golden crown on the day of Asher’s coronation. Only the crown-helm, the cold Warfather helmet, officially laid upon his head by the Grand Priest of the Golden Temple amidst ringing bells and silent awe.
A smile, quiet and distant, tugged at the corners of Asher’s mouth as his gaze wandered.
He watched a boy, young, beautiful, and strong, his emerald hair gleaming even in the dim light, dragging carts filled with stones across the frost-hardened path. The boy raced others, pushing his cart alongside those pulled by Ovoks, beastly oxen with muscles like corded boulders and eyes of calm fire.
Already five feet tall at four years old, Merlin was a spectacle. The workers often paused to gawk. Some whispered prayers; others simply smiled. He had become the heart of their daily grind.
It was at Asher’s command that the Paladins, dressed in snow-pale gambeson, joined the labour, many of them spending more time watching over the boy than lifting a stone.
Walking beside Merlin was Nero, his cloak trailing behind him like a second shadow, his eyes ever alert, ready to shield the prince from any harm, no matter how small.
Merlin’s towering height wasn’t a surprise. In truth, it would have been more shocking if he wasn’t that tall. The people of Ashbourne viewed their royal family as giants in both blood and soul. If their king stood ten feet tall and their queen, nine, how could a son who barely reached a common man’s shoulder be believed to carry that divine lineage? To them, a child who wasn’t a towering figure was a weak branch from a mighty tree.
"Come here," Asher said softly, his voice lost beneath the snow but not to his son.
Hearing his father’s call, Merlin abandoned his cart and jogged over, his boots kicking up white powder. Nero followed close behind, his expression unreadable.
"You were supposed to watch and learn," Nero muttered in that low, ever-irritated tone, "but you ended up pushing carts."
Still moving, Merlin scoffed. "I watched. Then I tried it. Looked fun competing with the Ovoks."
Nero shook his head, his curly hair bouncing against his pauldrons. "Your brother learns swordplay from the finest knights in the realm. He has two Lord Commanders as personal instructors. And you, your first mission is at the far end of the kingdom, and this is how it ends."
Merlin spared him a glance from the corner of his eye. "Aren’t you the best knight in Ashbourne territory?"
Nero didn’t reply. He simply nudged the boy forward. Merlin stumbled, caught himself, and lifted his gaze, right into his father’s golden eyes.
Eyes like twin suns, calm but burning.
The weight of that gaze made Merlin’s heart flutter. He bowed his head slightly.
But Asher squatted, closing the distance and gently took his son’s small, calloused hands. He drew out a cloth from his coat and wiped away the dust, dirt, and ice.
"How was it?" he asked.
"It felt good," Merlin smiled.
Asher ruffled the boy’s emerald hair with a quiet laugh, then stood tall once more. He walked past his son, leaving the Kingsword stuck in the earth like a rooted titan’s bone.
Merlin watched him. Then, his eyes fell on the sword, it towered above him, as tall as any six-foot man. Curiosity bloomed. He reached for it.
"He’s about to do it," he whispered. "Watch."
[Criteria fulfilled to upgrade the wall. Host, do you want to upgrade the wall into a great wall that shall surround the Kingdom of Ashbourne? Yes or No]
At that moment, everything stopped. As if time held its breath.
All eyes, masons, guards, Paladins, even Ovoks, turned toward the wall, which had barely reached the height of an adult man but stretched wide, its width triple that of any structure before it. They stepped back. Even the bravest warriors gave it distance.
A golden beam, thin at first, like a divine finger, descended from the heavens and touched the wall. Not just here, but all across Ashbourne’s heartlands, wherever the wall had been raised. Cities, forts, villages, everywhere.
Those close enough to see it ran, dropping tools, fleeing in awe and terror.
The golden curtain began to shimmer, and the earth trembled.
Stones flew, drawn into the beam. Bricks, dirt, timber, all the material accumulated over two years, were sucked in like feathers into a storm. It did not crumble.
The beam pulsed. Brighter. And brighter. And brighter.
Until none could look.
The light vanished in a flash like the blink of a god’s eye.
Where once stood a low wall now loomed a colossus. A wall one hundred feet tall. Seamless. Imposing. Eternal.
The Great Wall of Ashbourne had been born.