My stomach growls as I limp down the dark and empty street, the echoes of my old and tattered boots hitting the cobblestones no match for the sound of my hunger. 

A spoonful of soured cabbage and a sliver of salted beef as tough as my leather mail armor for dinner. How pitiful. Our rations are getting smaller and smaller with every passing month, the theft sure to quicken the decrease. 

Bastards. 

I have enough to deal with. 

Suddenly, my cravings, my ravenous pangs twist violently into a shearing pain and I wince in agony. 

Fucking leg. 

I fumble through my pocket and pull out a bottle, my hands shaking to get it uncorked. But it's futile. There's not a single drop of elixir left. 

Gods be damned. 

More than anything I want to let out my frustration, to yell, to cry as if I was on the battlefield, to smash the bottle with all my might against the earth, but a light soon floods around my black coat, casting my long-haired shadow onto a carriage wheel left to rot on its side. 

Gazing over my shoulder, I see a candle fluttering behind a window, its flame as meagre as its wick. But still. And for a second, I hear the soft murmurs of giggling children in their beds. 

With what this city has been through, with what they've been through, I commend them for still finding the muster to laugh. I wonder what the future will hold for them. I'm hopeful but I know the reality. 

I shuffle towards the light. And when I reach the thatched hovel, I rap quietly on its front door. 

A young woman in a ratty nightgown too big for her answers shortly. 

'Sheriff Harg,' she says, her mouth quivering in dread, 'is anything wrong? Has there been an attack? Did something happen to my husband? Please say no. I beg you, please say no. He is all I have left.' 

Apart from him being a soldier, I don't know who her husband is. I don't know who she is. Although, I've probably walked past her countless times on duty. I've probably even greeted and bowed to her. 

'There has been no attack,' I reply. 'We would have heard.' 

Relief washes over the woman's pale face. She wipes away a tear. 

I continue, 'I came knocking to tell you that I can see your light from the street. If you're going to use candles at night, or anything that produces a flame, you must close your shutters. You don't want to give the enemy a target. Not only will you put your life at risk but others too.' 

'I'm so sorry,' the young woman breaths, mortified. 'I was certain I closed all the shutters before I lit the candle-which I rarely do, for it is the only one I have left. I always do. You must believe me. Am I in trouble?' 

I'm not going to throw her in jail. I would never for such a mistake. But even if I was a cruel sheriff and did lock her away, word would surely reach her husband and he'd not be too pleased.  We don't need any more wicks leading to our destruction to burst into flame, even if it is just a single star amongst the countless in the night's sky. 

'Just don't do it again,' I say with an unemotional smile and a curt nod. 

The young woman opens her mouth to respond when her stomach grumbles before fizzling out with a whistle. 

'My pardons,' she says, the dim candlelight showing her flush. 

'No need for apologies,' I reply, 'Everyone's stomach is doing that nowadays.' I then bow. 'I bid you goodnight.' 

'Goodnight, sheriff,' says the young woman. 

But as she's about to close the door, I quickly blurt out, 'Oh, one more thing. . . .' 

'Yes, sheriff.' 

'When someone knocks, especially at night, make sure you know who they are before opening the door. Yes? As you know, the world has more evil than good.' 

'Yes.' 

'Good. And goodnight.' 

'Goodnight, sheriff.' 

I bow again and trudge on, light soon vanishing from the street. I'm not far along when a breeze flitters by, carrying a familiar smell. It's strong and earthy with a hint of pig dung. And it makes my belly churn again. 

After five years of this city under siege, I can't believe he still has a supply of berry weed. The southern wall is not far away. Should I go and say hello to my friend? I haven't seen him in ages. More than two weeks. A few moments won't hurt my investigation. Who knows, maybe he can help or give me a pang of inspiration. My head always clears in his presence. 

I change direction and follow the smell. It takes me past my old army barracks, under one of the many disused and crumbling aqueducts in the city, and through a tiny park once lined with glorious silverbark trees, their foliage a vibrant purple. Now, and like many other parks in the city, it sprouts vegetables. 

Past the skeletal remains of the Southern Market, its thatched roof no more, I enter an alleyway, the narrow walk space eventually opening up into a small square. Soldiers, at least four dozen of them, and all dressed in armour, are resting, resting before their next shift. 

I hear loud snores and quiet chatter and see men eating their grotesquely small and cold rations. Several heads gravitate towards me. Some bow and I bow in return. Others salute but only soldiers are allowed to salute back. 

At the far end, a soldier stands guard below a set of stairs carved into the monstrous sandstone boulders of the southern wall, its tiny flecks of crystals glinting ever so despite the night. 

Closing in on him, I see through his crooked helmet that his eyes are shut. 

Unlike the other soldiers, he shouldn't be resting. We don't need some nefarious individuals sneaking up and causing chaos amongst our first and only line of defence. 

I stop in front of him and clear my throat. 

The soldier wakes with a start, taking a step back. His right hand grabs the hilt of the sword tucked into his belt. 

I do the same, to defend myself if it comes to that. 

I shouldn't have startled him. 

'Sheriff,' he quacks, immediately releasing his grip. 'I just closed my eyes for a second, I swear.' 

Stolen novel; please report.

I can't count how many times I nodded off at my post when I was in the army. And a few of those I was caught and punished. 

'No worries, soldier.' I say. I would be more concerned if there weren't the other soldiers around. 'I won't tell anyone.' 

'Thank you, sir.' 

'Just please don't do it again.' 

'Yes, sheriff.' 

'Is Commander Frum up there?' I nod above us. 

'He is, sir, but I'm not sure where precisely.' 

'May I. I need to have a word with him about something important.' 

With speed, and a bit of a stumble, the soldier moves aside. 

'Thank you,' I say before bowing and beginning the climb, my left leg tormenting me beyond comparison with every step not long after. 

Maybe this was a mistake. 

How I wish I was never injured. That was a dark day for me. One of many. But it paled in comparison with the blackest, the one that took my everything away from me. Took her. Took my true love. 

Making it to the top feels like I've just traversed the entire kingdom, before the war changed its borders, from the Sapphire Sea in the east to the Vanishing Dunes in the west. 

Between the wall's merlons, alert soldiers stare out into the dark, the lights from the enemy's giant torches spanning the entire horizon and all the way up the Dragontop Mountains. 

I eye the fabled peaks a little longer, imaging the flaming lights as the breaths of dragons. 

Those days are long gone. The real dragons that once caused havoc for the residents of a growing town that is now my city have turned to wooden ones, weapons of the enemy. 

'Sheriff,' a voice says, breaking me out of my contemplation. 

I glance over to see a soldier gazing at me, his loaded crossbow lowered, aimed at his feet. 

'Any signs of an impending attack?' I ask, hopeful of nothing. This city needs more time to calm and heal itself from the last barrage. It was quite violent. 

'We've seen no movement from here,' the soldier replies, 'or heard any horns, sir.' 

I just nod in response at the welcoming news but that could change any moment. 'Where can I find Commander Frum? I need a word.' 

'He's in the catapult tower, sir. In a meeting with the king's advisor.' 

My annoyance shows and a faint grin spreads on the soldier's pockmarked face. 

The king's advisor is not the most respected person. Hated would be a better word. 

As I go on my way, I pass more soldiers, too many to count. Then I see it, appearing out of the gloom, emerging like a pillared nest of a winged leviathan. 

Built in the first war between our kingdom and the Kingdom of Rhagor, the catapult tower pierces the sky, shooting up into sailing and scattered clouds. 

Once there, I'm welcomed by a dozen of the commander's guards stationed at the tower's gate, men I trained when I was an army sergeant. It's good to see them in one piece.  

'Is that you, Mendy?' I ask the baby-faced soldier. 

'It is, serg– sir,' he replies. 

Many, especially the ones I garnered close relationships with, still wrongly call me sergeant. And if Mendy didn't correct himself, I would have set in right. 

'It looks like you're finally getting some stubble on your face,' I say, knowing a bit of levity can take the edge off. 

The others laugh, which makes me smirk. 

'Yes, sir,' Mendy says. 

After a bit more banter, me doing all of it, the soldiers clear a path, two of them opening the gate behind them. I walk through and the smell of berry weed smoke hits me like an ax to the face. 

It truly is most oppressive and I still don't know how he can smoke it. It tastes like the Bogs of Death. I tried it once with disastrous consequences and never had the desire to try again. I think I can taste the soured cabbage coming up. 

Inside is dark, too dark to see, but I know my way, the tower once a second home. I keep to the left and find the circular, ascending stairs. Relieved I don't have to go to the very top, I climb. 

And slowly, light seeps eerily down from above. The further I go, the brighter it gets until it's as bright as day. Several lamps fluttering before a set of hefty iron doors is the source. 

I stomp onto the dusty stone floor, off the stairs that continue up, and walk over to the doors. I can hear Sir Blouf, the king's advisor, yelling at my old friend, his voice as sharp and painful as one of the queen's yapping lap dogs. 

As commander of the king's army, my friend deserves more respect than that. If it wasn't for him, we'd have perished a long time ago. 

I decide to interrupt, pounding the side of my fist into the iron doors. It is beyond thunderous. 

The baying shouts stop before I hear Sir Blouf say, 'We'll continue this conversation at another time.' 

'If we must,' the voice of my friend replies. 

The response makes me laugh. 

The iron doors soon fling open with force, almost catching me and sending me on my backside. Sir Blouf then marches out, a sour look on his severe thin face. One look at me, his black eyes boring a hole though my soul, and the sourness increases with a snarl. 

'Sir Blouf.' I bow deeply, my eyes following his blood red robe down to his serpent scale boots. 

New clothes. It must be nice. 

Not returning my gesture, Sir Blouf disappears down the stairs. 

'I hate that man,' a voice says behind me. 

I turn to see my old friend, his tired and weary round face aged since I last saw him. But always a sight for sore eyes. 

From his elven made chainmail, he pulls out the behemammoth tusk pipe I gifted him when we were younger. He lights it and raises it up to his greying brown beard. 

'I hope he doesn't hear you, Seamil,' I say. 

'I don't care if he does, Pannor.' Seamil takes a puff from the pipe and blows the smoke towards me in jest. 

He knows I hate it and I frown at his attempt at humour. 

'You should care,' I finally say after wafting the smoke from my face. 'He's the king's advisor.' 

'The man is a pompous ass who thinks this city revolves around him.' Seamil then snaps a finger at me. 'Do you want a drink?' 

'What kind of drink are we talking about?' 

'A drink that will put fire in your belly. Well, more an inferno than a fire. No, more hellwind than inferno.' 

'I can't say no to that.' 

I haven't had a drink in months. Maybe it will help with the pain in my leg. 

I follow Seamil through the iron doors and into a room lit by more lamps. It's not the most grand quarters for the king's commander but Seamil has never cared for that sort of splendour, unlike other commanders in the past or city officials now. 

Apart from a hearth charred with soot and a moth-ridden cot in the corner, two tables take up much of the space. One is strewn with unfurled maps of the city and the surrounding areas, and the other is a desk, a pile of letters stacked high. 

Seamil walks behind his desk and sits down, his hand quick to an ugly flagon shaped like a giant squid, another one of my gifts. Then with his pipe hanging freely from his mouth, his other hand grabs a cup. He pours me a drink of dark green liquid and I take it, chugging its contents down with one gulp. 

He was right. It burns. But it's pleasant. 

Seamil smirks. 'Needed that I'm sure.' 

'Sure did.' I raise my empty cup. 'What is it? More precisely, what's it made from?' 

'You don't want to know.' 

'It can't be worse than that fermented bat shit you gave me a year ago.' 

'There are a lot worse things down in the city's sewers than bats.' 

'Will I die from it?' 

'I haven't yet.' 

Seamil pours me another drink. I take my time with this one, just taking a sip. 

'So what was that all about with Sir Blouf?' I ask. 

Seamil takes a long puff from his pipe. 'The king wants to attack the enemy. He wants us to leave the city and try our luck.' 

'That's suicide,' I reply, shocked at the notion. 

'That's what I relayed back to the king. And I advised him that we don't. Sir Blouf did not take too kindly to that and came to see me, to see if I could change my mind. He actually showed me how we could do it.' He waves to the maps on the other table. 'A man with no battle experience lectured the commander of the army on how to attack the enemy. It took a lot to not laugh right in his gormless face. In fact, it took a lot to not punch him. I have a feeling it was him who suggested the idea to the king.' 

'Being the idiot he is, I'm sure it was,' I say. 'He yelled at me too. This morning.' 

'For what reason?' Seamil asks. 

'For not finding the culprit who stole the food from the granary.' 

Pouring a drink for himself, Seamil replies, 'But that was just a few days ago.' He then proceeds to empty his cup. 

'It was. I'm a smart man but that's asking too much of me.' 

Speaking of food, and as I place my own cup down on the desk, I notice a bowl of porridge next to the pile of letters. My stomach begins to beg for it. 

Seamil sees my wanting expression. 'Have it.' 

I shake my head. 

'Please. Eat. I'm full to overflowing,' Seamil continues. 

'Full? Please don't lie,' I reply. 'Nobody, except for the royal court and probably the granary thief, has been full in this city in a long time.' 

'Suit yourself.' 

'How's the wife?' 

Seamil shrugs. 'I've seen you more than Lorma in the past couple of months. I haven't been able to get away. I hope this is not asking much but do you think you could make sure she's fine? Go over to that monstrosity of a house of ours? Her just seeing your old face for a second would ease my worry.' 

I nod. 'I'll go tomorrow.' 

'Thank you, old f—' 

An ear-piercing roar bounded up from below and through the doors, making me tense up. 

'ATTACK!!' 

'WOODEN DRAGONS!!' 

'ALL SOLDIERS TO THEIR STATIONS!!' 

The peel from the catapult tower's earth-quaking bell follows, setting off the alarm bells in the city one by one, their sharp faint noise loud enough to hear. 

My friend and I give each other that look. A look of fear and determination with a hint of excitement. A look we've given one another countless times.