Chương 25: Chapter 26: It's Just a Wooden Bird

The eastern line survived another four days without collapsing entirely, which in Dunmere had become close enough to victory that nobody questioned the wording anymore. Rain continued drifting through the Greywash in long pale curtains that softened roads, rotted timber, and turned every trench beyond the eastern wall into a grave waiting patiently for occupants.

The beasts attacked irregularly now, not with constant pressure, but with something worse: silence stretched long enough for men to begin hoping the forests had emptied, and then something slammed into the palisades after midnight hard enough to wake the entire camp screaming. Nobody slept properly anymore, and I least of all. Iron (late) sat heavily inside me now.

The heat beneath my chest no longer arrived only during combat or exhaustion, but lingered constantly, pulsing faintly beneath my skin like something banked and waiting. The darkened veins near the old ritual marks had faded slightly after the merge, though not enough to stop Bren from occasionally staring too long before deliberately looking away. The older guard still said nothing, and that silence had become its own kind of pressure. Field Rigging spread through the eastern line faster than I expected.

Rope-supported brace systems now reinforced most of the outer hauling trenches while pulley recovery rigs stood beside nearly every damaged section of wall. Workers asked me questions constantly. Guards requested my help before reinforcing gate anchors or support lines. Even Wade Corbett, who normally treated praise like a contagious illness, had started introducing me to labour crews as though the skill belonged naturally to me.

"Ask Vey," the carpenter muttered during one repair shift.

"He's the rope bastard." Jory Pike grinned immediately from atop the trench brace he was securing.

"That should absolutely become your title."

"It won't." Jory pointed toward the support system below us.

"You say that now, but give it a month and they'll carve little ropes on your grave marker." I looked up at him.

"That feels unnecessarily hopeful."

"Look around," he said.

"Half the eastern line's hanging together because you tied things aggressively." The ferryman was exaggerating, but only slightly, and I hated how much the skill worked. That was the real problem. Field Rigging settled easily into camp life because the war rewarded practicality more than identity. The skill solved immediate problems. Walls stopped collapsing. Hauling systems survived longer. Barricades redistributed force instead of simply breaking beneath impact. Useful. Everyone kept saying useful.

I increasingly despised the word. The feeling worsened two mornings later during a supply reinforcement briefing near the eastern trench fires. Half a dozen militia overseers stood around one of the hauling maps discussing support failures while Bren leaned silently against a stack of Ironbark stakes nearby.

"We need Vey on permanent trench rotation," one overseer said while pointing toward the eastern supports.

"The southern anchor systems survived three barkback hits last night." Another nodded immediately.

"And the north wall braces lasted twice as long after his modifications." Permanent trench rotation. I felt something tighten unpleasantly beneath my ribs. The overseer looked toward me and said, with the terrible calm of a man offering common sense, "You should stop wasting time on patrols." The statement was practical, logical, and almost certainly correct. It still felt like being buried alive. Wade noticed my expression immediately.

"Careful," the carpenter muttered quietly once the overseers moved away.

"You look like somebody just suggested marriage."

"They want me doing support work full time." Wade shrugged.

"Because you're good at it." I looked toward the eastern trench line.

"That's not helping." Wade studied me for a long moment while rain tapped softly against the trench awnings overhead.

"You hate the skill that much?" I hesitated. The answer should have been no. Field Rigging kept people alive. The eastern line genuinely relied upon it now. Men who understood structures survived longer than men who simply swung swords until something stronger arrived. Yet every time someone praised the skill, I felt myself narrowing. Trench braces. Pulley systems. Support anchors.

The future unfolded ahead of me suddenly, hideously clear: a useful frontier support specialist slowly growing older while stronger men fought the real battles beyond the walls. The thought filled me with immediate revulsion. Wade seemed to understand more than I intended him to.

"Hm," the carpenter grunted.

"That bad." Before I could answer, movement near the caravan rows interrupted the conversation. Merris crossed the eastern camp carrying a ledger beneath one arm while caravan workers unloaded fresh rope bundles and cured leather from the wagons behind him. He moved through the trench line with the same quiet familiarity I increasingly noticed in awakened people, not stronger exactly, but more aware.

His eyes assessed structures automatically while his hands tested rope tension absentmindedly whenever he passed support systems. The old trader stopped beside one of the trench braces and examined the tendon anchors closely.

"Ugly." Wade looked at the same brace.

"But holding."

"That's frontier engineering." Wade snorted softly.

"You fit in around here better than most traders." Merris looked offended by the premise.

"That's because most traders are idiots." The old merchant looked toward me afterward.

"You're tired." I wiped rain from my face.

"That's also becoming common feedback." Merris's expression did not shift.

"You're making permanent decisions while exhausted." The words landed heavily enough that Wade glanced between us immediately. I frowned slightly.

"What permanent decisions?" The merchant's eyes drifted toward the reinforced trench systems surrounding the eastern line.

"The sort people praise because they're sensible." Neither Wade nor I spoke for several moments. Finally the carpenter folded his arms.

"You saying he should abandon it?" Merris shook his head slightly.

"I'm saying useful roads become cages faster than dangerous ones." That sounded suspiciously rehearsed. I studied the old merchant carefully.

"You've done this before." Merris barked a short dry laugh.

"Everyone who survives long enough regrets at least one skill."

"That isn't an answer." His mouth twitched.

"It's the closest you're getting." The merchant started turning away, then paused.

"One voluntary abandonment per rank." The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I blinked once.

"What?" Merris looked back toward me.

"You heard me." The eastern camp noise seemed to dull slightly around the words.

"One," the merchant repeated calmly.

"Most people never test the limit because most people are terrified of wasting progression." His eyes shifted briefly toward the trench systems.

"Smart people especially." I felt cold despite the heat beneath my skin. Desperate Counter came back to me immediately: the first skill that had saved my life, the first Copper threshold I had ever reached, the first thing I had cut away because Talvek and Bren had told me survival was not the same as quality. I had already abandoned one skill during Iron. Merris saw the understanding reach me.

"There it is." I stared at him.

"That can't be right."

"It is." Wade swore softly beneath his breath. The merchant shrugged.

"Ranks stabilise people. Too many voluntary abandonments damage progression identity." His mouth twitched faintly.

"Or so the scholars claim. Personally, I think the system just dislikes indecisive idiots." I barely heard the joke. One abandonment per rank meant that if I dropped Field Rigging now and learned something worse, I would remain trapped with it until Copper. The reality settled heavily into my chest, and Wade looked toward the trench braces around us with uncommon caution.

"Maybe don't make emotional decisions during a siege."

"That sounds wise," Jory announced from nearby.

"Which means he'll absolutely ignore it." I looked toward the eastern wall instead of answering. Field Rigging remained useful, and that somehow made the choice harder. The rest of the day passed badly after that. Every support brace reminded me of the skill. Every compliment from workers tightened the discomfort further.

By evening I found myself actively avoiding the trench systems I had spent days building, and the behaviour became obvious enough that Bren eventually cornered me near the southern processing pits after dusk.

"You're distracted." I tightened the strap on one of the hide racks.

"I'm tired." Bren's eyes stayed on me.

"You're angry." That irritated me immediately because it was true. Bren leaned against one of the hide racks while watching workers strip tendon from an Iron stalker carcass nearby.

"Field Rigging?" I looked away. The older guard nodded once.

"Thought so." Silence stretched briefly while rain drifted through the firelight around us. Finally Bren spoke again.

"My brother kept a skill he hated for six years because it was useful." I frowned slightly.

"What skill?" Bren's mouth shifted just enough to suggest old bitterness.

"Quarter Tallying." That surprised me enough that Bren almost smiled.

"He got assigned to supply counts during a bad winter. Learned the skill naturally." The older guard shrugged.

"Everyone praised it. Said it'd guarantee stable work. Safe advancement. Logistics officers survive longer than frontline idiots."

"But?" Bren looked toward the trench line.

"But he hated every second of it." The fire popped softly nearby while workers moved in dark shapes through the rain.

"He abandoned it eventually," the older guard continued.

"That's when he started chasing stronger paths too fast." The implication settled unpleasantly between us. I looked toward the trench line visible through the rain.

"So what? Keep a skill you hate forever because it's practical?"

"No." Bren's expression hardened slightly.

"Just understand the difference between rejecting a road because it's wrong and rejecting it because you're scared of what it says about you." That struck far too accurately. I left before the conversation could continue. I dropped Field Rigging before I could be told otherwise. ABILITY ABANDONED Field Rigging has been abandoned. Former grade: Common. This craft slot is now empty. Voluntary abandonment limit reached for Iron rank. There could not be a worse ability.

The eastern camp settled slowly into uneasy night rhythms afterward while patrols rotated through the mist beyond the walls. I wandered farther than intended along the southern trench fires until the noise of workers and guards faded behind me. Near one of the outer supply wagons, someone had left a pile of discarded wood scraps beside a broken crate, small useless offcuts from damaged hauling frames and shattered barricade supports, too warped for structure and too wet for decent kindling.

I crouched beside them absently while the rain drifted softly through the darkness. My hands moved before thought fully formed. A knife appeared from my belt. One of the wood scraps settled into my palm. Then I started carving, not intentionally, not with purpose, but because the blade wanted somewhere harmless to go. I shaved rough edges, smoothed corners, and turned the useless scrap slowly beneath the knife while the heat beneath my chest eased for the first time all day. That made me pause.

The calm felt subtle but immediate. No trench calculations. No support angles. No collapsing walls. No men praising me for becoming a better brace in human shape. Just the scrape of steel through soft wood while rain whispered against the eastern camp around me. The shape emerging beneath my hands looked vaguely birdlike. Badly birdlike. One wing sat crooked while the beak resembled a damaged hook more than anything alive.

Yet I kept carving anyway, shaving little strips from the wood with quiet concentration while the camp noises drifted farther into the background. The warmth beneath my ribs settled lower. Steadier. Almost peaceful. That frightened me enough to stop. The half-finished carving sat awkwardly in my palm beneath the firelight. Useless. Childish. A waste of time during a siege, and perhaps for that reason the first thing I had made in weeks that did not seem to belong to the war. Yet I found myself wanting to continue.

Footsteps approached softly through the mud behind me. Merris stopped beside the wagon without speaking immediately. His eyes moved from the carving knife to the rough wooden shape in my hand.

"Well," he said eventually, "that explains it." I frowned.

"Explains what?" Merris nodded toward the carving.

"You're calmer." The observation unsettled me because it was true. I looked back toward the rough wooden bird.

"It's nothing." Merris crouched beside the wagon and picked up another discarded wood scrap from the mud.

"That's usually how strange roads start." The old merchant turned the scrap once in his fingers.

"You know what the problem with respectable skills is?" I did not answer. He looked toward the eastern line.

"They teach people to become useful before they become themselves." The words settled heavily into the rain-dark silence between us. I looked down at the carving again. The knife moved almost unconsciously now, smoothing rough edges while tiny curls of wood gathered near my boots. Then the system settled softly through me. ABILITY ACQUIRED Knickknacks has awakened at Common rank. You have begun making small, low-value crafted objects from discarded or ordinary materials.

This ability grows through simple handcraft, attention, care, repetition, and making things whose value is not always obvious at first glance. The word struck so suddenly I physically flinched. My grip loosened instantly. The little wooden bird slipped from my fingers, struck the wet stones beside the wagon, and snapped apart where the neck met the body. One broken wing spun once through the mud before settling beside my boot. I stared at it blankly. Knickknacks. Not Woodcraft. Not Carving. Not Artisanry.

Knickknacks. The sheer stupidity of it hollowed something inside me. The broken bird lay in the mud between my boots looking pathetic enough to feel personal: crooked, fragile, useless, a tiny shattered thing born from exhaustion and poor judgment during a siege. Merris saw the notification reach me immediately.

"What'd it call itself?" I swallowed once.

"Knickknacks." The old merchant went very still. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not mocking laughter. Recognition.

"Saints alive," Merris muttered.

"There's a road I haven't heard in years." I looked up sharply.

"You know this skill?"

"I know of it." I looked at the broken bird again.

"That sounds worse." Merris nodded.

"It probably is." The embarrassment arrived slowly afterward, creeping beneath my skin while I stared at the pathetic little wooden bird lying broken in the mud. I had spent weeks surviving the eastern line. Killed Iron beasts. Merged Copper crafts. Helped hold Dunmere together during the beginnings of a siege. And somehow awakened Knickknacks. Jory was going to be unbearable.