Five days later, the skies above the Southern March were overcast. Clouds hung low and heavy, casting a bruised light across the Ornes heartland. The high balcony overlooking the outer barracks of Ornes Keep was quiet, save for the soft grinding of armor and the faint shuffle of guards changing posts below.
Inside the royal solar, the mood was far from grim. Lord Gratham Ornes leaned back in his chair, his arms resting behind his head. His armor was half-unclasped, heavy pauldrons set to the side. A chalice of fire-wine steamed beside him on a side-table.
"Tell me, Sebas," Gratham said, eyes focused on the distant hills through the tall windows, "have you ever thought about who will come after you?"
Across from him, Sebas—his longtime commander and personal companion—snorted.
"No," he answered, arms crossed, his voice laced with the gravel of countless battlefield screams. "Since I don't have a spouse."
Gratham chuckled. "What about that tavern hostess? The one near Duskhelm Ridge. Didn't you two—?"
Whatever jest he intended was cut short by the thunderous sound of doors slamming open. A servant burst into the solar, his face pale, tunic half-undone, breath catching in his throat.
Sebas straightened instantly, hand to his sword. "What is this thoughtlessness? Has discipline fallen so far you forget how to knock?"
The servant stumbled forward, ignoring protocol, eyes wide with panic.
"My lord—! Northfire Post—Northfire has been destroyed!"
For a moment, silence rang louder than any outburst. The logs in the hearth cracked and shifted, and Gratham's fingers froze mid-reach for his wine.
"…Do you realize what you're saying?" Sebas said, each word heavy as a dropped axe.
The servant nodded frantically. "I—I do, sir. The courier who brought the news arrived just an hour ago. He's barely alive. The physicians have him under ether but—he repeated it clearly. The post is gone. Not taken. Not besieged. Gone."
Sebas turned to Gratham, whose eyes had lost all mirth.
The Southern Warking stood without a word, crossing to the wide desk littered with maps. His fingers slid over the leather surface, stopping at a red-marked hill: Northfire.
Gratham exhaled once, through his nose. "Who was it that brought the news?" he asked, voice quiet.
"A border scout. Said he was on rotation at Eastwatch. He found the wreckage on patrol," the servant replied, now trembling. "He's receiving treatment now. Three healers say he won't last a day."
"Call the Shadowbinders," Sebas ordered. "We'll extract everything from his mind before it fades."
Gratham's gaze remained locked on the map.
"Northfire was supposed to be untouchable," he murmured. "A fortified plateau. One entrance. Reinforced steel-golem shells, fifteen guardian towers, two-layered mana barriers. And it fell… without resistance?"
"Ornes doctrine forbids retreat," Sebas said. "If the Ash Company struck—"
"They didn't just strike." Gratham interrupted. "They cleansed. No signal came. No warning. No smoke. No dead birds. They turned a fortress into a memory without triggering a single alarm."
Sebas scowled. "Only a handful of enemy forces could even operate that cleanly."
Gratham's fingers curled into fists. "No one should've operated at all. Not this fast. We expected probes. Harassment. Not annihilation."
Sebas hesitated, then voiced the question hanging in both their minds. "Do you want me to summon the Marchguard?"
The Marchguard—his elite personal division. Seventy golem-mounted knight-commanders sworn directly to the Ornes bloodline.
Gratham shook his head. "Not yet. If we move them too early, it tells the south we're panicking."
Sebas grunted. "They should panic. That training ground was meant to feed two full cohorts of commanders. If the Ash Company keeps this up—"
"They will," Gratham said darkly. "This is their signal. Their declaration."
The Warking turned back to his seat, but he didn't sit. Instead, he stood staring into the hearth, the flames dancing in his eyes.
"They chose now to strike. And they hit where it hurts, not where it's obvious."
He reached into a drawer behind him and pulled out a sealed scroll. The wax bore a simple symbol: a burned ash tree.
"Fornos Dag," he muttered.
Sebas blinked. "You think he did this himself?"
"No," Gratham admitted. "But it was his order."
He set the scroll down and unrolled a nearby intelligence sheet. It detailed the last few troop movements near Varnhollow.
"He's grown quiet. Too quiet. While we postured and expanded, he built an army from exiles and engineers. Trained them like a private legion. It seems he wants a war. So he took the first swing."
Sebas leaned closer. "What's our next move?"
"We find the pattern," Gratham said. "We're not fighting brutes. We're fighting minds. Every target he chooses will fit a strategy. So we follow the logic—and break it."
He turned, eyes blazing with sudden intensity. "Send word to Duskhelm. Triple the guard rotation. I want high-altitude scouts in the sky every morning and night."
"Understood," Sebas replied.
"And issue bounty slips for every known Ash Company operative. Anyone who sells even food to their forward scouts gets their land seized."
"Yes, my lord."
Gratham finally sat. His face remained calm—but the fingers on his gauntlet tapped a slow, deliberate beat against the wood.
"He's declaring war with silence," he whispered. "Let's see how he handles thunder."
Far to the north, in the high passes above the ruined wreckage of what was once Northfire Post, a cloaked figure crouched beneath a stone outcropping.
Wraith.
He watched as the last embers flickered out among collapsed towers, cooling slag still steaming in the valley's unnatural quiet.
Behind him, an Architect relayed a silent pulse through the relay codex—confirmation of phase completion.
Wraith nodded once and stood.
The Ash Company moved like a storm.
The March had just begun.