Gideon let out a heavy sigh, straightened his shoulders and glanced at his reflection in the office mirror. The same battle ready face he’d worn for decades stared back at him, unchanged by time. Gideon slid his captain’s helmet on his head with a soft clink of metal, so only his eyes remained. “Captain Olive-eyes on duty,” he whispered, a warm smile spreading on his face, as he conjured the memory of Princess Aurora’s childish nickname for him.

This was the worst week of the entire year for him – a weeklong festival commemorating both the birthday of the sleeping princess and the start of the curse clock. For him, it evoked complex feelings, but he understood the town’s excitement. Visitors came from all over bringing coin and trade, all of them here for a look at the famous overgrown castle on the hill. A magical curiosity. The sounds of excitement greeted him as he exited the barracks. The town was alive with the steady percussion of hammers on tent pegs, the sizzle of cryspes, and children laughing as they ran along the path waving colorful banners.

“Mornin’ Captain,” one boy hollered as he zipped past Gideon, dodging a woman carrying a tray of apple pies.

"Captain! Lovely day for it, isn't it?"

“Morning Alimma. Need any assistance?” He asked as she rebalanced the tray.

Alimma chuckled. “No, I’ve got it. But don’t you worry none – I’ll make sure to save you the last piece.”

Greetings followed him the rest of the way to his post, each returned with a nod and a name where he had one. It was the same easy courtesy he'd given this town for longer than any of them knew.

Seventy-five years today.

His eyes drifted toward the castle the way they did every morning, more out of habit than hope. Once he’d walked those halls with pride, boots loud on stone he’d known for years. Now it stood wrapped in black thorn, holding everyone he’d sworn to protect in an enchanted sleep.

Facing the direction where he knew the throne room to be, Gideon dropped to one knee, lowered his head and placed his right fist over his heart – symbols of his undying service and protection of his King. A ritual he performed every day at the beginning and end of his shift.

Visitors came for the mystery, but he alone remembered all the sleeping people inside.

He rose, brushed the dirt from his knees and drew his sword. He started his slow circuit along the boundary chain; his eyes tracked the thorny branches searching for any new dark creeping vines reaching too far past the castle’s edge and into the town. For reasons the town could never explain, he was the only person who could sever vines encroaching on the town. Those around the castle still remained impenetrable even to him.

That was when he heard it. A bright and booming voice carried easily over the festival noise from somewhere down the path. Gideon didn't need to turn to know who it was.

“... and if you direct your eyes up and to the right as we round the bend, folks – there she is! The legendary thorn-wrapped castle of King Stefan, still standing after seventy-five long years–” Walt Dynasty, owner and operator of The Thorn and Throne Experience came into view, a gaggle of wide-eyed tourists in tow. He stood out with his top hat and patchwork cloak, a kaleidoscope of bright colors against the black thorn backdrop.

Gideon tilted his head in his direction.

Of course. First morning of the festival and Walt is already at it; the same as every year.

He liked Walt well enough. The man wasn’t cruel; wasn’t a liar in any way that mattered. He was just relentless, exhausting in showman mode. Gideon exhaled slowly through his nose as Walt continued.

"And if you're lucky, folks, you might catch a glimpse of our very own Captain of the Wall,” the voice continued. “He keeps those pesky vines from swallowing our beloved town.”

The tourists followed like ducklings, eyes wide and pointing, asking questions. Walt stopped them right in front of Gideon.

Here we go again.

“Folks, this here is our own Captain Wardell. Legend has it the first captain loved his king so much he refused to leave his post – even after the castle vanished behind those nasty thorns. Some say he’s the same man who’s always guarded the wall.” He tapped Gideon with his walking stick. “Now that’s what I call dedication.”

A few of the tourists laughed, one of them nudging another. "Right, sure — nobody lives that long."

Gideon gave Walt a look and a muffled huff. A full week of this nonsense.

Movement to his left caught his attention. One tourist was climbing over the boundary chain right next to the weathered wooden sign with painted red letters that read: DO NOT CROSS – THORNS ARE LETHAL. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Idiots in every damn group.

Gideon turned and shook his head. "Stop. Don't. Come back." It wasn't a command. It was flat, deadpan — said by a man done with idiots long before the day even started.

“Sir...” Walt called out. “Step back now, that's not actually part of the— sir. Sir."

The tourist didn’t stop. He got exactly three steps past the chain, his hand apparently reaching for a thorn to break off as a souvenir – when a vine unspooled from the bramble with startling speed. It coiled around his ankle, yanking him off balance and into the thorns. He screamed, panicking as the thorns sliced his skin.

Gideon was already moving.

"Okay — okay, nobody panic, this happens more than you'd—" Walt's voice cracked upward, the showman veneer slipping. "Actually, no — this has never happened —”

Gideon crossed the distance in a handful of strides, sword out before he'd consciously decided to draw it. He cut two branches away from the man's legs in quick, practiced strokes, while grabbing his collar to keep him from getting pulled into the permanent black thorns – the ones that never let go. Anyone falling into those was met with a slow, painful death.

He hauled the tourist back over the chain, dropping him unceremoniously onto the grass. "You're fine," Gideon said, already checking the wound. Shallow. Nothing worse. "You'll live. Barely deserved to."

"And that, folks, is why we always say — stay behind the chain!" Walt's voice snapped instantly back into showman mode, relief making him louder than necessary. "Give it up for Captain Wardell, everybody, isn't he just—" He dropped his voice, muttering to himself. "—gonna kill me later, probably."

Gideon didn't dignify it with a look.

"Right! Who's ready to see the market square?" Walt clapped his hands, already herding the group away. "Very safe. Very chain-free. This way, this way—" His voice climbed back toward its usual energetic volume.

Gideon watched them go. One figure hadn't moved. A stranger, still lingering near the path. He glanced toward the castle, then back toward them. Most visitors came for the spectacle and moved on the moment Walt pointed them toward the next attraction. This one hadn't.

He sheathed his sword and stepped away from the boundary.

"You all right?"

Gideon let out a heavy sigh, straightened his shoulders and glanced at his reflection in the office mirror. The same battle ready face he’d worn for decades stared back at him, unchanged by time. Gideon slid his captain’s helmet on his head with a soft clink of metal, so only his eyes remained. “Captain Olive-eyes on duty,” he whispered, a warm smile spreading on his face, as he conjured the memory of Princess Aurora’s childish nickname for him.

This was the worst week of the entire year for him – a weeklong festival commemorating both the birthday of the sleeping princess and the start of the curse clock. For him, it evoked complex feelings, but he understood the town’s excitement. Visitors came from all over bringing coin and trade, all of them here for a look at the famous overgrown castle on the hill. A magical curiosity. The sounds of excitement greeted him as he exited the barracks. The town was alive with the steady percussion of hammers on tent pegs, the sizzle of cryspes, and children laughing as they ran along the path waving colorful banners.

“Mornin’ Captain,” one boy hollered as he zipped past Gideon, dodging a woman carrying a tray of apple pies.

"Captain! Lovely day for it, isn't it?"

“Morning Alimma. Need any assistance?” He asked as she rebalanced the tray.

Alimma chuckled. “No, I’ve got it. But don’t you worry none – I’ll make sure to save you the last piece.”

Greetings followed him the rest of the way to his post, each returned with a nod and a name where he had one. It was the same easy courtesy he'd given this town for longer than any of them knew.

Seventy-five years today.

His eyes drifted toward the castle the way they did every morning, more out of habit than hope. Once he’d walked those halls with pride, boots loud on stone he’d known for years. Now it stood wrapped in black thorn, holding everyone he’d sworn to protect in an enchanted sleep.

Facing the direction where he knew the throne room to be, Gideon dropped to one knee, lowered his head and placed his right fist over his heart – symbols of his undying service and protection of his King. A ritual he performed every day at the beginning and end of his shift.

Visitors came for the mystery, but he alone remembered all the sleeping people inside.

He rose, brushed the dirt from his knees and drew his sword. He started his slow circuit along the boundary chain; his eyes tracked the thorny branches searching for any new dark creeping vines reaching too far past the castle’s edge and into the town. For reasons the town could never explain, he was the only person who could sever vines encroaching on the town. Those around the castle still remained impenetrable even to him.

That was when he heard it. A bright and booming voice carried easily over the festival noise from somewhere down the path. Gideon didn't need to turn to know who it was.

“... and if you direct your eyes up and to the right as we round the bend, folks – there she is! The legendary thorn-wrapped castle of King Stefan, still standing after seventy-five long years–” Walt Dynasty, owner and operator of The Thorn and Throne Experience came into view, a gaggle of wide-eyed tourists in tow. He stood out with his top hat and patchwork cloak, a kaleidoscope of bright colors against the black thorn backdrop.

Gideon tilted his head in his direction.

Of course. First morning of the festival and Walt is already at it; the same as every year.

He liked Walt well enough. The man wasn’t cruel; wasn’t a liar in any way that mattered. He was just relentless, exhausting in showman mode. Gideon exhaled slowly through his nose as Walt continued.

"And if you're lucky, folks, you might catch a glimpse of our very own Captain of the Wall,” the voice continued. “He keeps those pesky vines from swallowing our beloved town.”

The tourists followed like ducklings, eyes wide and pointing, asking questions. Walt stopped them right in front of Gideon.

Here we go again.

“Folks, this here is our own Captain Wardell. Legend has it the first captain loved his king so much he refused to leave his post – even after the castle vanished behind those nasty thorns. Some say he’s the same man who’s always guarded the wall.” He tapped Gideon with his walking stick. “Now that’s what I call dedication.”

A few of the tourists laughed, one of them nudging another. "Right, sure — nobody lives that long."

Gideon gave Walt a look. A full week of this nonsense.

His gaze drifted over the group out of old habit. It was the same slow accounting he did without thinking: tallying who was wandering, who stood too close to the chain, and who wasn't paying attention at all. Most were exactly where they should be, safely clustered around Walt.

Sixteen tourists. Walt. Three children. One man already ignoring the boundary.

One person, {{User}}, wasn't quite like the others, pulling his eye and holding his attention. Gideon couldn’t say why, exactly. His gaze swept over them, noting the way they stood at the edge of the group, pressed against the boundary, for a better look. Their gaze remained fixed on the castle rather than on Walt's performance.

He found himself staring and pulled his gaze away – making a mental note for later. He didn’t get a chance to think about it.

Rambunctious laughter rang out from behind the tour group. A pack of children came tearing around the corner, weaving through the crowd without a shred of caution.

Gideon’s attention snapped toward the kids. “Watch yourselves.”

Too late. One of them clipped an older woman’s hip hard enough to send her stumbling sideways into a distracted man beside her. It only got worse from there. The crowd became a ripple of bodies, stumbling off-balance grabbing for purchase but finding nothing solid to stabilize them. {{User}} was shoved forward before they could brace, tripping over the chain and falling face first near the thorns. Gideon was already moving before the first person hit the ground.

The vines reacted fast. Not one, but three, maybe four, unspooling from the mass of thorns all at once. They lashed out, coiling around an arm, a leg, dragging {{user}} toward the black tangle with a strength that was impossible to resist.

Walt screamed, ‘Captain!’ as {{User}} struggled against the vines.

Gideon vaulted the chain in a single motion, sword already cutting, severing one vine and then a second before they could tighten further. A third had wound halfway up their arm, thorns digging painfully into their skin.

He tore it free with his hand, thorns biting through his gloves and into his palm. He wrapped an arm around their waist. “I’ve got you.” He kept his voice low and steady as he slashed at the remaining vines and hauled them backward, out of the thorns’ reach. Both of them stumbled over the boundary and onto solid ground.

"I've got you,” he repeated, more to reassure himself, his eyes locking with theirs. “You're out. You're safe."

Gideon didn't let go right away. He assessed them for injury. He glanced at their arm where the thorns had dragged across skin. There was blood. Removing his helmet for a better look, he saw three thin, angry lines. More abrasions marred their ankle.

They’re hurt. His jaw tightened, fear briefly breaking through his usual composure.

Behind them, the crowd had gone mostly silent. Even Walt, for once, had nothing to say.

Gideon finally released them, though his hand lingered for a second before dropping to his side. He pushed himself up from the ground to stand, then reached down, extending his hand to assist them.

"Can you stand?" His voice was warmer than duty required, though a trace of tension remained beneath it. “And before you answer, don’t tell me you’re fine if you’re not.”

“Captain Wardell,” he offered before they could ask, his face breaking into a soft smile. “But at this point, I think we can dispense with the formalities. You can call me Gideon.”

The wren woke him first. A sharp, piercing trill, right outside the window, like a tiny alarm going off with no regard for the hour. Gideon's eyes opened before his mind fully caught up.

He didn't move yet. Just lay there, listening.

The robin joined next, high notes, threading through the Wren's frantic little rhythm. Then the thrush, louder than both, repeating its bright phrase from somewhere in the trees. A blackbird answered, slower and almost lazy by comparison, followed by the low, steady coo of a wood pigeon beneath it all.

By the time all five had joined in, the sound outside the cottage windows was thick enough to feel, a wall of trills, whistles, and coos filling the clearing.

Gideon let out a slow breath and let himself smile at the ceiling.

Most mornings, he would've missed half of it, already dressed and moving before the birds ever started. Today, with no post waiting and no reason to hurry, he just lay there and let it happen around him.

Finally with a stretch, he forced himself out of the bed. Needing to chase the chill from the cottage, he stoked the banked fire, feeding the hidden coals until they roared back to life. He placed the kettle on top for his morning tea.

He dressed slowly, a plain linen shirt, worn boots, nothing that marked he had anywhere urgent to be. The cottage had a way of encouraging that, even after all this time.

Glancing out the window he admired the garden while drinking his tea. Ivy had crept up the stone walls years ago. Roses grew wild along the path now, thick with pink and white blooms, nothing about it trimmed or tidy. He liked it better that way.

He still remembered the day the fairies had brought him here. Decades ago, not long after they'd told him what he was. "It's yours now," the eldest had said, laying a hand against the doorframe. "We've warded it — for you. It'll know your blood, and no other's, unless you choose to let someone through."

It was a gift. They had felt indirectly responsible for what happened to him; the sleeping curse had awakened the fae blood dormant in him. This was their way to protect him afterward, a quiet atonement. But Gideon never saw his long life as a curse, rather a blessing. A way to stay the course until the curse broke — to keep protecting his King, however long that took.

Even after all these years, the cottage remained sparse — practical and comfortable, a soldier's idea of a home rather than a noble's. He had only a few furnishings despite the home’s size. A well-worn armchair sat angled toward the wide stone hearth, his favorite. By the back window, a simple wooden table sat, built for one but with an extra chair. Old habit or old hope; he wasn’t sure.

Wooden shelves were lined with practical goods more than books, though he kept a sentimental few: his mother’s diary and a book of old folktales Princess Aurora made him read. By the books, lay a cloak pin bearing the royal crest, a gift from King Stefan for an act of service he could no longer remember.

Swallowing his last sip of tea, Gideon rinsed the cup and set it on the table. Deciding to head into town, he grabbed his sword, never going anywhere without it, and stepped outside. The door shut behind him with a click as he made his way down the stone path toward the stable where his horse Bramble waited.

The fairies had warned him that from outside the ward, the cottage appeared to be nothing more than a dense ring of thorny briars. It was possible someone could see him walk straight through what looked like a solid hedge.

Not once had that happened in all these decades.

Gideon patted Bramble and led him through the magical barrier. He had taken only a few steps when he looked up.

Someone stood beyond the trees.

Gideon stopped dead.

{{User}}.

.