West Gate of Wessex Castle

The west gate is a fortified wooden barrier braced with fresh timber, hastily reinforced against the spreading siege. Its original iron-bound doors sag under the weight of fresh planks nailed across gaps, splintering where bolts of fire have already seared through the grain. Beyond the gate, the outer courtyard stretches unevenly toward the moat, its flagstones littered with singed debris and the blackened husks of torches melted into the cracks. The air reeks of charred wood and damp stone, the acrid stench of burning pitch from the Brethren’s fire bolts clinging to the damp air. Watchmen’s voices crackle from the battlements above, their shouts muffled by the growing clamor from within the palace walls—shouts that rise and fall with the rhythm of paranoia rather than order. The gate’s hinges groan under strain, each swing of the trebuchets upstream sending tremors through the timber, while beyond the towering palisade, the silhouette of distant pyres marks the cult’s handiwork. This is no longer an entryway; it is the last line where wood meets flame and tradition meets annihilation.