Cameron To Candy

The horns came at midday, three sharp blasts and a long, accelerating note that rattled windowpanes and sent pigeons screaming into the air. Every head turned. Every conversation died mid-sentence. The sound was unmistakable, terrible, and absolute.

Invasion.

For one frozen breath, the city seemed to hold still. Then Paddlewick moved. Doors slammed, shutters clattered, and the measured rhythm of boots and bells replaced chatter in the streets. Mothers called for their children. Men stowed their tools and ran. From the spires to the stables, from the ministry ring to the altar block, the whole kingdom seemed to shift in a single, trained motion, a thousand threads tightening into their woven pattern.

Candy stood rooted for a heartbeat, pulse thudding in her ears. The horns still echoed between the stone walls, the note of danger singing in her chest. She caught Marcus’s eye across the table. His expression was calm, not afraid, not surprised. Only steady. Of course it was. This was business as usual for him. It was only different for her now that she was a woman.

Invasion Protocol Drills. They were practiced once a year, always in the month of Thundermarch and announced ahead by weeks; only the specific time of day was not revealed. The horn sound differed slightly from the real invasion, in that the long note would be solid rather than wavering. Candy had known this was coming; Marcus had made sure of that. For over a week he’d walked her through the motions, showing her where she was meant to go, what she was meant to say, and what she was meant not to do.

“As Cameron,” he’d said more than once, “your duty was to report as a soldier, help women, guide children, then present yourself for assignment at a Muster Point. That was your station. But now you’re Candace Elwood, wife of Marcus Elwood. That station is gone. Now you’re the one to be protected. Your only duty is to get yourself to the Safe House, or to help if another woman is overburdened. Nothing else.”

She hated it. Every time they rehearsed the short walk, she chafed at it. “It’s demeaning. I feel like baggage,” she muttered more than once. Marcus had no answer for that. He’d only look at her with that steady, practical expression, as if to say: I don’t make the rules, I just make sure you’re not punished by them.

When the bells sounded, they fell into step together. He kept beside her until the corner, where their paths split, the Safe House one way, Muster Point the other. He stopped there, resting a hand on her shoulder just for a moment.

“You know what to do,” he said quietly. Not encouragement, not tenderness, just certainty; the same tone he’d used a dozen times in practice.

Candy exhaled sharply through her nose. “Yeah. I know what to do.”

She turned away, dress swishing as she joined the line of women and children heading toward Safe House #4C. It was only a block or two more, but it felt like miles. Behind her, Marcus strode off in the other direction, already tightening his belt as he prepared to present himself at the Muster Point.

When she reached the Safe House door, she joined the short queue. She could see two of her neighbors a few spots ahead of her, Talla Strapworthy and Miss Calvia Pinchworth. When Candy got to the front of the line a matron with a ledger barked out the familiar words: “Name? Male guardian? Household number?”

Candy clenched her jaw and gave the answer she loathed.

“Candace Elwood. Under the authority of my husband, Marcus Elwood, household seven, east row, Verse Alley.”

The quill scratched, the ledger closed. She was waved inside, just another parcel logged and stored.

The air in the Safe House was thick with bodies and nervous chatter. That was when a mother, red-faced with exertion, thrust a swaddled baby into Candy’s arms.

“Please, hold her a moment while I get the others sorted.”

Candy froze, gripping the bundle stiffly with both hands, holding it out as far as she dared. The baby blinked at her, then angled its tiny head toward her chest, eyes fixed.

Milk.

Candy groaned under her breath. “Sorry, kid. These are decorative only.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the women nearby. Candy’s face burned.

The Safe House, once everyone had been checked and logged, quickly settled into its usual rhythm: boredom. Children sprawled on benches, some dozing, some squabbling. A pair of teens hunched over a battered Seven Seals deck, slamming cards with theatrical gusto.

“Ha! I play Blight the White!” one crowed.

“Well, I counter with Deep Throat!” the other shot back.

Candy chuckled despite herself. She, Marcus and Greg had been exactly the same at that age. Across the room, smaller children rolled dice, squealing at each other’s fortunes. A couple of women read aloud from dog-eared books, their voices droning over the restless energy. An old nursery rhyme was sung on the other end of the bunker.

“Two, three, five, seven — not a comet at all!

There is a baker on the moon, named Turin kind & neat,

Who pairs each loaf with green moon cheese, and keeps the children sweet.

He kneads the dough, he stirs the pot, he hums a counting tune,

Two, three, five, seven — not a comet on the moon!”

Candy looked around and thought, Next time, I’m bringing a satchel. A book, a game, anything. Sitting here like a lump is worse than useless.

Paddlewick, at least, wasn’t naïve. A rack of lightweight shields leaned by the wall. Every so often, a matron would call the children over and rehearse the worst-case scenario: Take a shield and run. Not fight, not stand, just bolt for the escape tunnels. Take the younger ones with them if they could. Candy had seen them: narrow burrows clawed into the bedrock, only wide enough for prepubescent bodies to squeeze through. Adults and teens would be left behind. The children might escape if there weren’t invaders on the other side of the tunnel. If not, they’d be trapped, but hopefully safe long enough for reinforcements to arrive. It was grim, but sensible. Paddlewick planned for everything.

Candy sat stiffly on the bench. She hated the waiting most of all. Back when she was Cameron, drills meant motion, weapons, orders, a place to be useful. Here, she was just… present. Accounted for.

She drifted toward the front of the hall, peering through the mesh at the door. Two male guards stood outside, halberds at their shoulders. Just inside the threshold was a rack of weapons: spears, shields, crossbows stacked neatly against the wall.

It wasn’t for show. Paddlewick was patriarchal, yes, but not suicidal. If the lines broke, women were expected to fight.

Candy watched as one matron began organizing a handful of women, those with no children at their heels, into ranks. Another woman, hair streaked with gray, took up a crossbow with surprising confidence. A male officer oversaw, nodding approval, before returning to his post.

For the first time Candy felt the line between herself and them. This was her first drill as a wife, and her name still sat at the bottom of the ledger: Hearthmaid. It was the lowest emergency ranking an adult woman could have. She wasn’t expected to fight, wasn’t expected to do much of anything except… hold a baby if asked.

She swallowed, then approached the lead matron at the table. “Ma’am,” she began, trying to keep her voice steady. “I—uh—I do very well in the self-defense classes. My instructor said so. I’d like to be a part of the defense line. How… how do I do that?”

The matron gave her a long look, quill still in her hand. “You’ve no children of your own, correct?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And this is your first drill as a wife.”

“Yes.”

The matron nodded slowly. “Then you’re a fine candidate. You’ll just need three things. First, a note from your defense teacher, witnessed and stamped. Second, proof that you can comport yourself in drills without panic. Make it through today and I’ll sign off for you.”

Candy’s jaw set. “And third?”

“You’ll need your husband's permission.” And there it was. That dash of male authority. For a moment she thought this would be a rare instance without it. Sure, Marcus would sign without hesitation, but she just found it humiliating to have to ask.

“Greeaaat,” she sighed. “And then?”

“Then you may be logged as a Shield-Sister. In time, perhaps a Matron-Defender.”

Candy thanked her stiffly and returned to her bench. Around her, the other women were murmuring, waiting, children tugging at skirts. She clenched her fists in her lap. She knew she could fight, but until the Ministry ledger said otherwise, she was a hearthmaid.

While Candy watched the drills, the iron door clanged again, and all eyes swiveled. A young woman bustled in, skirts swishing, cheeks pink with exertion.

The matron at the table was on her instantly. “Name? Husband? Household?”

“Susanna Cropley, under Jonathan Cropley, household five, east row, Verse Alley,” she said breathlessly.

The matron’s quill scratched hard. “Tardy. You’ll be issued a correction citation to be delivered by your husband.”

Suzy winced, then turned to the benches with a sheepish grin. “Uf-da, sorry, y’all. I went to the wrong bunker. We’ve only just moved in a month ago, ja? Still getting my bearings.”

A ripple of chuckles ran through the room; a few women shook their heads. The tension broke.

Spotting Candy, Suzy sashayed over and dropped onto the bench beside her. “Oh, Candy, darlin’. Sorry I’m late.” Her voice twanged in that thick northern Paddlewick accent, rounded vowels, nasal edges, with the occasional odd lilt, as though Plum Pudding drawl and Bellefemme flair had left faint stains on her tongue.

“Which one did you go to?” Candy asked.

“The west-side bunker,” Suzy said, rolling her eyes. “I followed John, y’know, thought I should stick closer to his Muster Point. But no, no, turns out I was wrong. Actually, he’s probably with Marcus right now, and I got myself quite a scolding. Then they had one of the older teens escort me here, like I can’t walk by myself. Uf-da, what a fuss!”

Candy’s gaze flicked down to Suzy’s bodice, showcasing the maximum legal amount of cleavage before a Ministry matron would pull her aside. She smirked. “Yes, I can see why a teenager might volunteer.”

Suzy threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, ja sure, you betcha! He near tripped over his boots to get me here. Can’t blame him, a?”

Candy shook her head, fighting a smile. “That tracks.”

***

Marcus broke from Candy at the corner, heading north toward the district Muster Point. The horns still echoed through the rooftops, distant but steady, as if the whole city itself were resonating with alarm. He lengthened his stride, not running, not panicked, but moving with purpose. Around him, other men were doing the same, joining from alleyways and side streets, tightening into a column by instinct.

The Muster Point sat beneath a stone arch marked “For King, for Order, for Home.” By the time Marcus arrived, the line was already forming, a well-oiled rhythm of names called, ranks verified, assignments issued. He was early enough to avoid the crush, though a small part of him kept glancing back the way he’d come. He trusted Candy to find her Safe House; he’d walked her there half a dozen times during practice. Still, he knew what it must feel like to her. Going from soldier to dependent. From guardian to guarded.

When his turn came, he stepped forward, offered his salute, and gave the familiar details.

“Marcus Elwood, household seven, east row. Banner-Man, Grade Three.”

The sergeant nodded briskly, logging the name. “Good. Eastern wall, Section B. Simulated breach. Take two men, reinforce the post. Go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus accepted the stamped chit and jogged off toward the courtyard where the armory horses were tethered. This part was always the same: grab gear, check harness, run the route. It was just a drill, yet each man treated it as if the eastern wall truly had fallen.

As they were about to mount up another sergeant called out over the clamor, “We’re still short one from the east-side roster. Cropley — Jonathan Cropley! Anyone seen him?”

Marcus looked up. No one answered. Two minutes later, a man came jogging in, hair windblown, face flushed.

“Sorry, sorry! Got turned around near the tanner’s lane,” he said, panting lightly. “Still new to this side of the city. My wife got confused about which Safe House she was supposed to use, and—well, you know. Had to make sure she was squared away.”

The sergeant scowled but logged the name. “See you’re on time next round, Cropley.”

“Yes, sir,” John said easily, smile never faltering.

They mounted up, fell in with the others, and rode hard toward the ramparts. Around them, the city thrummed with motion, carts cleared from the streets, wardens directing the flow, horns punctuating the air in urgent intervals.

At the gate, they dismounted and advanced through the staging ground. An officer called out, “Eastern Ring compromised, Section B! Wall breach simulation! Reinforce!”

Marcus’s squad surged forward, keeping formation. One of the rookies beside him, a young man still blinking dust from his eyes, started veering toward a row of storehouses.

“I’ll check the houses first!” the boy shouted.

Marcus reached out, caught his arm. “No, we circle wide first! That’s the protocol — sweep, confirm, then secure the inner block!”

The boy froze, wide-eyed. “Right, right! Sorry!”

Their supervisor, a heavyset Shield-Man with a folder under one arm, overheard the exchange. He said nothing then, but when the exercise concluded and the horns sounded the stand-down, he sought Marcus out.

“Good catch earlier,” the man said, flipping through his notes. “Banner-Man Elwood, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve got a good head. Steady under pressure. If you’ve no objection, I’ll be recommending you for Grade Two next rotation. You’re wasted just filling rosters.”

Marcus straightened, caught off guard. “Thank you, sir.”

The officer nodded once and moved on, already barking for the next tally.

***

The all-clear trumpet rang, and the heavy Safe House door swung open. Mothers gathered their children, matrons checked their ledgers, and slowly the women trickled back into the streets.

Candy fell into step beside Suzy Cropley as they wound through the familiar lanes toward East Row. The neighborhood was buzzing again, everyone returning to normal life after an hour of confinement.

Outside their adjoining houses, Suzy gave Candy a grin. “Well then, uf-da, that’s another drill survived. I’ll see you at the neighborhood meeting next week, ja?”

Candy hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Good. Don’t leave me to face them all alone.” Suzy winked, adjusted her bodice, and vanished inside.

Candy lingered only a moment before slipping into her own doorway.

A few minutes later Marcus came in, boots dusty, hair damp with sweat. He looked around the small sitting room, frowning. “Hey, did you move my work shoes? I could’ve sworn they were on this table, not that one.”

Candy blinked. “No. I didn’t touch them.”

“They must’ve been shifted.”

“By three feet.”

He shrugged. “Still. Feels off.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, forgive me if the Ministry doesn’t record our shoe placement. How was your drill?”

Marcus dropped onto a chair. “Standard. Wall duty, pike drills, supply checks. Nothing new. How was yours?”

Candy folded her arms, leaning against the table. “Mine was… a little boring. A little embarrassing. I still feel like I’m being moved around like property. Like a sheep herded into a pen by dogs.”

He glanced at her, but she pressed on. “On the plus side, Suzy Cropley showed up late. Made me look better. She got herself a proper scolding, but she laughed it off, of course."

Marcus smirked. “Yeah, I rode with her husband. John Cropley, right?. Didn’t speak with him, but he was also late. And I overheard him say he had to help her.”

“That’s him,” Candy said. “Suzy was Suzy, as always. But, she said a teen took her back.”

“Cleavage?” Marcus asked.

“Cleavage,” Candy confirmed.

“Huh, well, maybe he got her sorted with an escort before coming to the muster point,” Marcus speculated.

“Sounds right, I guess,” Candy said, turning to move toward the kitchen when her elbow brushed a drawer that had been left out a few inches.

“Oach!” she cried, hitting her funny bone.

“Shoot, bump yourself? You okay?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah, just you left the drawer out.”

“Wasn’t me,” Marcus denied.

“Well, it wasn’t me!” Candy retorted. Each rolled their eyes at the other. Then before another round could start, Marcus’ eyes lit up.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’m up for a promotion! They’re going to put the paperwork in to move me to Banner-Man level two. Not a huge difference, but it’s kind of neat.”

“Hey good for you!” Candy praised, still rubbing her elbow. “So, you’d be in charge of small blocks of civilians, and over Jr. Banner-Men?”

“Yep, pretty much.”

“Well, I’m sure you deserve it.” She hesitated, then exhaled. “Marcus… I want to move up too. I’d like to be one of the women who take weapons and guard. I’m good at self-defense. It’ll make me feel better about the whole business.”

Marcus sat up straighter, nodding. “That makes a lot of sense. You totally should.”

Candy gave a wry laugh. “I just need the paperwork. A note from my self-defense teacher, I’m sure she’ll give it to me. And…” she sighed, “your permission. I just need your signature.”

He tried not to grin, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You’re laughing. I can see it in your face.”

Marcus raised his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just, well, funny, in a, you know, ‘burn the whole country down’ kind of way.”

“...yes.”

“But yeah,” he said more firmly. “Get the form. I’ll sign it. Don’t worry.”

“Already here,” she said, fishing out a quill from the inkwell and handing it to Marcus. “The matron at the bunker got me started. She said I did well enough. The standard wasn’t super high, frankly.”

She hated having to ask him, hated the way it underscored her new role. And yet, the thought steadied her. Next drill, she wouldn’t just sit with the babies and play dice games. Next drill, she’d have purpose.