Outside the gates of Bree City, an army of Wights stood at the city's edge.

Seeing so many of them, the faces of the city militia turned pale with fear.

"How can there be so many Wights? Weren't the Barrow-downs Wights already wiped out?" a militiaman stammered, his voice trembling.

But no one could answer him; everyone was too terrified to think straight.

Among the soldiers, some were native-born Breefolk who had grown up hearing terrifying tales about the Barrow-downs. Before the Lord had established his rule, Wights often wandered near the road that passed by the Barrow-downs, and no one dared travel there at night.

Now, after several years of peace, how could these Wights reappear?

The militia captain reacted first. He shouted sharply, "Everyone, prepare for battle! Ring the alarm bell now! We must not let the Wights breach the city, or Bree will turn into a living hell!"

The militiamen quickly grabbed their bows and began shooting at the Wights below the walls.

Another soldier sprinted to the bell tower and desperately rang the alarm bell, the metallic clang echoing throughout the city.

The urgent peal of the bell instantly spread across Bree.

Inside the taverns and inns, the previously lively noise fell silent. Everyone turned toward the windows in disbelief, realizing the bell was no illusion.

Sleeping residents were jolted awake, hurrying to rouse their families.

Bree's alarm bell had rung for hundreds of years, and even though the town had long since grown into a bustling city, its purpose remained unchanged.

The faster and more urgently the bell rang, the greater the danger it signaled. When bandits from the South Downs had attacked before, the alarm had rung only three times, and most people had not even stopped their work.

But this time, it was ringing without pause, fast and frantic.

That could only mean one thing: Bree was facing an unprecedented crisis.

Panic spread instantly through the streets.

Mayor Graeme, jolted awake by the bell, sat up in bed with his heart pounding.

"Mayor! Mayor Graeme!" a militiaman burst through the door, shouting in terror, "Wights! Thousands of Wights are gathered outside the gate, they're trying to break through right now!"

"What? Wights!" Graeme's eyes went wide with disbelief. "How is that possible? Weren't the Wights of the Barrow-downs destroyed long ago?"

Ever since Sylas had dealt with the Barrow-downs Wights, adventurers had occasionally explored the area without incident. Mayor Graeme himself had even sent people to investigate and confirm that the Barrow-downs were completely cleansed.

So where had these Wights come from?

"No, with so many of them, I need to find somewhere safe to hide!" Graeme trembled, his face pale with fear.

The Graeme family had lived in Bree for generations, and old family records spoke of a time when hundreds of Wights attacked Bree. Back then, almost the entire population had been massacred.

And now there were thousands?

Graeme was terrified, desperate to flee.

But just as he was about to run, he froze; something inside him stirred.

"No, I am the Mayor!"

He looked around at the buildings he had worked so hard to build, eyes filled with conflict, fear, and stubborn pride.

"This city was built by my hands. Every brick, every tile, I made it what it is. I will not let those Wights destroy everything I have achieved. I will be the greatest Mayor Bree has ever had. No, I cannot run. I will not let that fellow Luke laugh at me."

The reporting militiaman was stunned when, instead of fleeing, the Mayor suddenly stood tall.

Graeme quickly put on a shirt woven from spider silk for protection, then donned a set of armor over it. Fully armored, he grabbed his sword and barked orders.

"Take me to the wall, I want to see it myself. Gather every man who can fight. We must not let the Wights breach the city. Tell the women and children to hide in the cellars."

On the city wall, the militiamen loosed volley after volley of arrows at the Wights below.

But their efforts were futile. The Wights' bodies were as hard as iron, and being little more than bones, they felt no pain. They rammed themselves against the city gate again and again.

The gate, made from thick oak planks and reinforced with an iron crossbar, began to creak and crack under the relentless impacts.

Worse still, some Wights, using their sharp claws, clung to the stone wall and started to climb.

Amid the chaos, the militia captain noticed that the Wights avoided the burning patches of fire on the ground below. His eyes lit up with hope.

"Light your arrows!" he shouted. "Use fire against them!"

As the burning arrows struck the Wights, the attack finally had some effect. The undead instinctively feared the flames. When the arrows hit them, the scraps of fabric clinging to their bones ignited in bursts of fire.

The Wights climbing the wall were drenched in oil by the defenders and then set ablaze. Their charred remains fell back with shrieks that were neither human nor beast.

For the moment, the Wights' assault faltered, and the militia breathed a brief sigh of relief.

It was then that Mayor Graeme arrived, panting beneath his heavy armor. He had rallied most of the city's fighters and unlocked the armory.

When he looked down from the wall and saw thousands of glowing red eyes and decayed faces pressing against the gate, his legs nearly gave out. But seeing the flames drive them back, he shouted, "Bring all the oil, kerosene, anything that burns! I have a hundred and twenty-two barrels of olive oil in my warehouse, use them all! Burn these monsters to ash!"

Normally stingy, the Mayor no longer cared about his wealth; he only wanted the Wights gone.

Some men rushed off to fetch fuel while the rest held the walls. Though afraid, Graeme forced himself to stay and help. Unable to draw a bow, he hurled stones instead, managing to knock one Wight off the wall. For a moment, he felt triumphant, until the creature's glowing eyes glared back up at him, making him shudder.

Soon, barrels of oil and bottles of liquor from every tavern were rolled to the wall. The defenders poured everything down and lit it.

A sea of fire erupted outside the gate, flames roaring skyward and bathing the battlefield in light. The Wights recoiled from the inferno, retreating with shrill screeches.

Cheers rang out from the battlements. As long as they held until dawn, the rising sun would scatter these creatures.

But their relief was short-lived. The Wights suddenly stopped retreating. Their red eyes blazed brighter, and thick black smoke poured from their bodies.

Then, ignoring their fear of fire, they surged forward again, shadowy figures flashing through the flames, smashing into the gate.

The fire seared their flesh, but under the cloak of black smoke, the damage was slight. Maddened, they hurled themselves against the gate in waves.

One impact. Then another. Dozens. Hundreds.

Even the strongest timber could not endure such force.

With a thunderous crack, the city gate splintered.

The Wights shrieked in triumph and surged forward, only to crash into a solid iron grate.

The steel barrier, set within the gate arch and weighing several tons, dropped just in time.

The Wights slammed and clawed at it, but it held firm.

Through the bars, the defenders stared in disbelief.

Mayor Graeme, chest heaving, declared proudly, "That was my idea when the wall was built!"

For once, the soldiers looked at him with respect. The defense he had ordered years ago had saved them.

The Wights howled in fury. Abandoning the gate, they began to climb over each other, forming ladders of bodies to reach the top of the wall.

Horror spread among the defenders as the mass of undead rose higher and higher.

"Throw everything you have!" the captain roared.

Stones, fire, and oil rained down from above.

"Mayor Graeme, we can't hold on much longer!" the militia captain shouted, his voice cracking from exhaustion. "We must ask Lord Sylas for help! Only he can save us!"

Mayor Graeme was drenched in sweat, his hands raw from hurling stones. His face was pale with fear. "Help? But the whole area outside the city is filled with Wights. How are we supposed to reach Hogwarts Castle?"

Then a thought struck him. His eyes widened, suddenly gleaming with hope. "Wait, the Prancing Pony Inn! The fireplace there connects to Hogwarts Castle through the Floo Network! We can use it to contact Lord Sylas!"

Before anyone could move, a sharp cry echoed through the sky.

It was clear and piercing, the majestic call of an eagle.

A gale swept through the city, scattering smoke and embers. Thunder rumbled, lightning tore across the heavens, and the dark clouds churned violently.

Everyone looked up. Amid the storm and flashes of light, a massive silhouette emerged from the clouds, its wings spreading like thunderclouds themselves.

"It's Thorondor! It's Lord Sylas Thunderbird!" Mayor Graeme exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement.

He had often visited Hogwarts Castle to report to Sylas and had seen Thorondor with his own eyes, either perched on the golden tree or soaring above Weathertop. The image of that divine creature was burned into his memory.

Now, seeing Thorondor descending from the heavens, radiant with lightning, filled him with both awe and relief.

The Wights that had been climbing and stacking themselves suddenly froze.

...

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