Kell screams. The sound tears from his throat, a raw, ragged thing, utterly familiar. He feels the blade, not a phantom echo, but the true steel parting flesh, severing bone, finding the exact, practiced spot between his third and fourth ribs. It punches through his lung, then his heart, a cold spear of iron. The pain blooms, an impossible, all-consuming flower of agony. His vision blurs. The Saltmere plain, usually a shimmering expanse of white, dissolves into a kaleidoscope of grey and crimson. He tastes salt, metallic and gritty, on his tongue, a taste that always accompanies this moment. It is not just the salt from the ground, but the salt of his own blood, mixing with the brine that seems to infuse the very air. He hears the roar of the battle, distant now, muffled by the rush of failing blood in his ears. The enemy soldier, a blur of grey uniform and hard, triumphant eyes, pulls the blade free. A gush of warmth follows, then a sudden, sickening chill. Darkness washes over him. A complete, absolute absence of light and sound. This is the moment, the brief interlude. He knows it intimately. For a second, he ceases. For a breath, he is nothing. And then, the memory begins to claw its way back. The face of the soldier who killed him this time, etched into his mind. A new face, yet so much like the nine hundred others he carries. The thin scar above the left eyebrow. The set of the jaw. The glint of a silver ring on the sword hand. This detail, like all the others, now lives inside him, a permanent guest. His chest convulses. He gasps, air tearing into lungs that were just, moments ago, still. His eyes snap open. The world rushes back, sharp and painful. The gritty salt of the plain scrapes against his cheek. He lies flat on his back, eyes staring up at a sky the color of stale ash. A phantom ache throbs in his chest, a ghost wound precisely where the blade entered. He pushes himself up, muscles protesting, joints stiff as ancient hinges. His uniform is intact, no tear, no blood. The sword that killed him, a standard issue Longfang, lies a few feet away, embedded in the salt crust. The soldier who wielded it? Vanished. Already respawned, undoubtedly, on their side of the Wall, ready to forget this moment entirely. Kell presses a hand to his sternum. The dull ache settles, a familiar companion, deeper than the skin, a bruise on his very soul. He pulls his own battered Longfang from its sheath, the familiar weight a small comfort. Another death. Just another Tuesday. He rises, shaking the salt from his tunic, and scans the battlefield. The skirmish has moved on, a receding tide of clashing steel and muffled shouts. His squad, Elara and Jax, would be back at the Wall by now, or what was left of it. They would be laughing, perhaps, or complaining about the stale rations. They would remember nothing. He starts the long, trudging walk back towards the Saltmere Wall, the immense, grey barrier that cleaves the world in two. Each step crunches on the salt, a dry, grating sound that mirrors the one in his chest. The sun, a pale, indifferent disc, already begins its slow climb. Another day. Another death. The futility of it all is a taste on his tongue, far more persistent than the metallic tang of his own blood.---By the time Kell reaches the main encampment, the morning light has softened the harsh edges of the Saltmere Wall, painting its cracked stone in hues of pale grey and muted amber. He walks past rows of canvas tents, identical and worn, their flaps tied open to catch the sparse breeze. The smell of watered-down rations and stale ash hangs in the air, a constant companion. He spots Elara and Jax near their usual firepit, a small, sad circle of scorched earth. Private Elara sits cross-legged, meticulously cleaning the edge of her standard-issue short sword with a square of oiled rag. Her movements are precise, almost meditative. Her dark hair, usually a wild mess, is pulled back into a tight, practical braid. She hums a low, tuneless melody, entirely absorbed in the task. Across from her, Corporal Jax leans against a stack of supply crates, stretching his arms above his head, his muscles ripple under a faded tunic. He yawns, a wide, exaggerated sound, then rakes a hand through his sandy hair, making it stand up even more impossibly. Kell screams. The sound tears from his throat, a raw, ragged thing, utterly familiar. He feels the blade, not a phantom echo, but the true steel parting flesh, severing bone, finding the exact, practiced spot between his third and fourth ribs. It punches through his lung, then his heart, a cold spear of iron. The pain blooms, an impossible, all-consuming flower of agony. His vision blurs. The Saltmere plain, usually a shimmering expanse of white, dissolves into a kaleidoscope of grey and crimson. He tastes salt, metallic and gritty, on his tongue, a taste that always accompanies this moment. It is not just the salt from the ground, but the salt of his own blood, mixing with the brine that seems to infuse the very air. He hears the roar of the battle, distant now, muffled by the rush of failing blood in his ears. The enemy soldier, a blur of grey uniform and hard, triumphant eyes, pulls the blade free. A gush of warmth follows, then a sudden, sickening chill. Darkness washes over him. A complete, absolute absence of light and sound. This is the moment, the brief interlude. He knows it intimately. For a second, he ceases. For a breath, he is nothing. And then, the memory begins to claw its way back. The face of the soldier who killed him this time, etched into his mind. A new face, yet so much like the nine hundred others he carries. The thin scar above the left eyebrow. The set of the jaw. The glint of a silver ring on the sword hand. This detail, like all the others, now lives inside him, a permanent guest. His chest convulses. He gasps, air tearing into lungs that were just, moments ago, still. His eyes snap open. The world rushes back, sharp and painful. The gritty salt of the plain scrapes against his cheek. He lies flat on his back, eyes staring up at a sky the color of stale ash. A phantom ache throbs in his chest, a ghost wound precisely where the blade entered. He pushes himself up, muscles protesting, joints stiff as ancient hinges. His uniform is intact, no tear, no blood. The sword that killed him, a standard issue Longfang, lies a few feet away, embedded in the salt crust. The soldier who wielded it? Vanished. Already respawned, undoubtedly, on their side of the Wall, ready to forget this moment entirely. Kell presses a hand to his sternum. The dull ache settles, a familiar companion, deeper than the skin, a bruise on his very soul. He pulls his own battered Longfang from its sheath, the familiar weight a small comfort. Another death. Just another Tuesday. He rises, shaking the salt from his tunic, and scans the battlefield. The skirmish has moved on, a receding tide of clashing steel and muffled shouts. His squad, Elara and Jax, would be back at the Wall by now, or what was left of it. They would be laughing, perhaps, or complaining about the stale rations. They would remember nothing. He starts the long, trudging walk back towards the Saltmere Wall, the immense, grey barrier that cleaves the world in two. Each step crunches on the salt, a dry, grating sound that mirrors the one in his chest. The sun, a pale, indifferent disc, already begins its slow climb. Another day. Another death. The futility of it all is a taste on his tongue, far more persistent than the metallic tang of his own blood.---By the time Kell reaches the main encampment, the morning light has softened the harsh edges of the Saltmere Wall, painting its cracked stone in hues of pale grey and muted amber. He walks past rows of canvas tents, identical and worn, their flaps tied open to catch the sparse breeze. The smell of watered-down rations and stale ash hangs in the air, a constant companion. He spots Elara and Jax near their usual firepit, a small, sad circle of scorched earth. Private Elara sits cross-legged, meticulously cleaning the edge of her standard-issue short sword with a square of oiled rag. Her movements are precise, almost meditative. Her dark hair, usually a wild mess, is pulled back into a tight, practical braid. She hums a low, tuneless melody, entirely absorbed in the task. Across from her, Corporal Jax leans against a stack of supply crates, stretching his arms above his head, his muscles ripple under a faded tunic. He yawns, a wide, exaggerated sound, then rakes a hand through his sandy hair, making it stand up even more impossibly.Kell watches them for a moment, the ordinary rhythm of their morning. Elara buffs her blade, Jax scratches at his scalp. No memory of the skirmish, no phantom pain. The thought grates, a dull stone in his gut. He turns away from their mundane existence, a bitterness rising. His duty calls, as it always does, even after death. The North Watchtower awaits, a lonely sentinel overlooking the plain.He climbs the worn stone steps, each spiral ascent a familiar strain on his calves. The air thins as he rises, carrying the sharper tang of salt and distant wind. The watchtower, a squat, solid cylinder, feels older than the Wall itself, its stones smoothed by centuries of weather and countless hands gripping the cold rail. He pushes open the heavy wooden door at the top, a groan of ancient hinges, and steps onto the circular platform.A cold gust whips at his tunic, tugging at his hair. He moves to the crenellated edge, his gaze sweeping the horizon. The Saltmere plain stretches endlessly, a vast, flat expanse of white, dazzling under the rising sun. To the east, the enemy territory, a shimmer of heat haze blurring the distant, dark line of their fortifications. To the west, the endless, empty desert. And directly below him, the Saltmere Wall itself, an unbreachable scar across the landscape.His eyes trace the familiar contours of the main gate, a massive, iron-bound leviathan of oak and steel. It is always closed, always barred, a symbol of their defence, an impenetrable barrier. Even during the rare supply convoys, it opens only a fraction, just enough to squeeze through, before slamming shut with a thunderous clang. This is the unyielding heart of their stronghold.He blinks.A tremor, subtle but immediate, runs through him. A flicker of something wrong, like a missing beat in a well-known song. He squints, shading his eyes with a calloused hand. The distance makes details indistinct, but the overall shape is undeniable. The gate. It is not closed. It is not even partially ajar.The main gate of the Saltmere Wall hangs wide open.His breath catches, a sharp intake of the cold, salty air. An impossible sight. The twin oak doors, each thick as a siege tower, are pulled back fully, revealing the dark maw of the passage beyond. No guards. No supply carts. No reason. Just a gaping void where there should be solid, unyielding stone and iron. The morning sun streams into the opening, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the empty space.His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the phantom ache of his recent death. This is not a drill. This is not a skirmish. This is something else entirely, something that twists the cold knot of dread in his stomach. The enemy does not simply walk through an open gate. They ram it, they blast it, they bleed for every inch. For it to simply *be* open? It makes no sense.A cold sweat breaks on his brow despite the biting wind. His grip tightens on the cold stone of the parapet, knuckles white. He leans further out, trying to ascertain if it’s a trick of the light, a distortion in the heat haze. But no, the lines are too sharp, the void too stark. The gate is undeniably, catastrophically open. An empty, black mouth yawning into their sanctuary. What kind of madness is this? He scans the immediate area around the gate for any sign of movement, any explanation. Nothing. The ground is clear, the watch path deserted. A lone desert crow circles high above, its call a bleak, mocking cry carried on the wind. The silence around the breach is unnerving, a profound absence of the usual sounds of activity. This is wrong. All of it.---Kell backs away from the parapet, his mind racing. The impossible has happened. He does not waste time shouting, does not raise an alarm that might draw attention to himself, or worse, to the still-open gate. His training, honed through countless deaths and rebirths, asserts itself. Panic is a luxury he cannot afford. Action is the only response.He descends the winding steps of the watchtower, his boots thudding softly on the worn stone. Each step down feels like a lifetime. The familiar spiral, usually a mundane path, now feels like a descent into an unknown abyss. He pushes through the heavy door at the bottom, emerging into the bustling, oblivious encampment.The scent of stale ash and watery stew hits him with a sudden force, a stark contrast to the clean, sharp air of the tower. He sees Elara and Jax still by their firepit, now joined by a few other soldiers, laughing at some private joke. Their faces are open, unburdened. They do not know. They cannot know. The thought sends a fresh wave of ice through him. They are all sheep, oblivious to the wolf that has just walked into the fold.He moves with purpose, a silent shadow threading through the camp. His hand instinctively grips the worn leather hilt of his Longfang, the familiar weight a small, cold comfort. The metal of the pommel presses into his palm. He keeps his eyes forward, avoiding eye contact, maintaining an appearance of normalcy. He does not want to draw attention. Not yet. Not until he knows more.The path to the gate, usually a busy thoroughfare, seems strangely quiet. A few soldiers mill about, but none are looking at the gaping breach. Are they blind? Or is there something else at play? A subtle hum of unease vibrates in the air, or perhaps that is just his own heightened senses, screaming at him.As he approaches, the sheer scale of the open gate becomes more terrifyingly clear. The huge oak doors, studded with rusting iron, stand fully retracted into their recesses in the Wall. The stone archway above, usually a dark tunnel, now swallows the light, an unblinking eye staring into their core. He can see all the way through, into the small, enclosed courtyard beyond. No one. The inner guard post is empty. The sentry walk above the archway is deserted.His boots crunch on the salt-crusted ground, the sound amplified in the sudden, eerie silence that seems to emanate from the gate itself. He slows his pace, his steps deliberate, almost predatory. Every muscle in his body tenses, ready to spring, ready to fight, ready to die again if necessary. He scans the shadows within the gate, looking for any flicker of movement, any glint of enemy steel.The air inside the gate passage is cooler, still. The smell of damp stone and stale iron replaces the camp's odors. He strains his ears, listening for any sound beyond the distant murmur of the camp. Nothing. No footsteps. No whispers. No clang of armor. Just the unsettling, profound quiet. It is like holding his breath before a plunge into icy water.He reaches the threshold of the archway, his hand now fully wrapped around his sword hilt, thumb resting on the crossguard. The light outside seems to dim, swallowed by the imposing shadow of the Wall. He peers into the passage, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The passage opens into the inner courtyard, a small space usually bustling with quartermasters and stable hands. Now, it is utterly silent. Empty. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. This is too easy. Far too easy. He takes one more slow, measured breath, the salty air filling his lungs. He steps into the shadow of the gate, his sword half-drawn from its sheath. He steps into the silence, into the unknown, into the trap he is certain awaits him. He steps through the impossibly open gate, knowing that whatever lies within, it cannot be good.The cold, still air of the passage wraps around him like a shroud, and a distant, echoing clang, like metal on stone, reverberates from somewhere deep within the Wall.

Chapter 1: The Gate Stands Open