Iron Citadel at Nightfall

The iron basin stood cleared of grime, but night brought a stiff draft curling over the skillet's raised rim. Open ground is careless ground. Near the thick handle mount, I found a dry, halved walnut shell discarded among timber splinters. Hard as boiled leather, curved like an arched pavise shield. I planted my boots into the cold pitted iron floor, grabbed both ribbed flanks of the shell, and hauled it against the inner rim to block the gap. With one solid shove, the shell wedged tight against the dark wall. I drew my broadsword, rested the flat steel across my knees, and backed into the shelter. The bastion holds.