Aerendil took the sergeant's sword belt from the table and felt the weight of command settle across his shoulders. The man had collapsed an hour before dawn, fever burning through him, leaving the fortress with three soldiers and a boy who should never have worn armor. The raid would come at first light. He walked to the eastern gatehouse and studied the iron hinges by torchlight. The metal showed rust where it met stone. One bracket sat crooked. He pressed his palm to the wooden door and felt it give slightly under pressure. The boy appeared at his elbow, too young for the sword he carried. Aerendil sent him to wake the archers, then stood alone before the gate. This was the ground he had claimed. The creature beyond the tree line could wait. His men could not. The bell tower stood dark against the early sky. Aerendil climbed the stone steps and found one archer already at his post, watching the tree line. The man turned, saw the sergeant's belt, and nodded once. No words passed between them. Aerendil drew the command seal from inside his coat and held it in his palm. The oak tree carved into its face caught the first pale light. He had carried it since leaving his master's hall, proof of nothing except that he had been trusted to go. The second archer arrived as the sun touched the horizon. Aerendil sent him to the eastern wall and kept the boy at the gatehouse with a crossbow he could barely lift. The ground beneath the tower was his now, every cracked stone and failing hinge. He would hold it or fall here. The sergeant's fever had decided that much. Aerendil rang the bell twice, the signal that watch had changed, and descended to meet whatever came through the trees.