Threnar Isle – Western Cliffs of Caorach Moor
Rain lashed the high cliffs. Thunder cracked across the broken sky. On the headland above the sea, the Howlstone stood jagged in silhouette, shrouded in mist. Beneath it, the wind carried voices not quite human, whispers caught in the stone.
From the fog-laced bay below, six black triremes emerged, silent and spectral. Their hulls shimmered with reflection runes. No oars beat the water. No sails creaked. The Phantomis-class war triremes rode the storm like shadows.
They did not dock.
They rose. Inlets flooded with Stormguard.
Fang-Captain Nyzekh stood at the prow of Phantomis I, his blade drawn but low. Behind him, Nyzekh's Fang waited: assassins, stalkers, and sea-cloaked blades. Not a word was spoken. Each warrior moved in rhythm, guided by scent-marks and pulse sigils. The Veil shimmered.
From the second flank, Bruga's Maul broke the shoreline. Tide Lieutenant Bruga, massive and horned, led the charge like a storm bull. Shock bolts from Phantomis II shattered Dazhum watchposts before steel ever touched ground.
On the northern ridge, Wen Tu's Silence emerged through the trees. Mists curled unnaturally. Earthbound chants bent terrain. Ramparts rose from sodden soil. Cliffside towers collapsed without a scream.
On the beach, Ryoku's Line formed a wall. Their trireme hit shore like a hammer. A disciplined advance followed. Shields locked. Spears braced. The center would not yield.
Above the assault, war mages traced storm glyphs into the sky. Elemental bursts of ice, brine, and force cracked against fortress walls. Qorjin-Ke scouts scaled cliffs, bypassing traps, laying death behind enemy lines.
By the third hour, every coastal outpost had fallen. Not one signal flare escaped the fog.
The Moor
The campfire snapped in the cold wind. Smoke coiled low over the moor, bitter with wet ash and sodden heather. The Threnari scouts sat hunched in their cloaks, mud caked to their boots, weapons within reach but for once sheathed.
They said little.
"The new ones took the plains in less than a week," muttered Eorlas of Clann Bréarnach, staring into the flames, his spear across his knees. "Dazhum legions shattered like rotted timber. Never seen their kind before. Their steel doesn't shine, and their dead don't bleed red."
"They're just another host," someone said. "One empire topples the next. New flags, same blades."
"The Dazhum raided our moors for generations," growled Connach of Clann Durnach, fist clenched. "Burned our crofts, chained our kin, made sport of our screams. If the black-cloaked ones drown them all in the sea, let them."
"And if they turn on us after?" said Aoan of Clann Gairloch. "We don't know what they want. We only know they kill fast."
Someone else added, "Two days ago, I saw another fleet. Bigger. Landed on the far side of the stronghold. Disembarked two full legions. Same black armor."
"So this was just a vanguard," Eorlas muttered.
"Then maybe we're next," came a quiet voice.
"Or maybe they think we're not worth the steel," Connach said, tossing a twig into the fire. "Either way, they haven't tested us yet. And I don't plan to offer the chance."
A beat passed. The wind shifted.
"We should ask for parley," said a younger scout, Firaen of Clann Naevan, his voice hesitant and uncertain.
"No," Connach replied. "Better to vanish into the highlands again than kneel to another banner."
"Maybe," came a voice. Not from the circle.
Every warrior snapped to their feet. Blades drawn. Bows raised.
A figure stood just beyond the firelight, half-shrouded in rain and smoke.
"Is it all right to come over?" the voice said again. Calm. Measured. "We mean no harm. If we meant to strike, your friend would be dead already. He was shitting by the tree an hour ago. His shit really does smell awful."
The scout in question paled and remained silent.
Tuarin of Clann MacTrein lowered his eyes, cheeks flushed with quiet shame, but stood his ground all the same.
Connach stepped forward. His hand did not leave the hilt of his blade. "You may come."
The figure entered the circle.
He was tall, his skin dark as burned iron, faintly shimmering beneath a black Nullmantle Carapace etched in alien patterns. His ears, though angled, were shorter than the high elves of old. Elf-like, but not long or pointed enough to mark him as one of their kin. Twin short sabers were crossed at his back. Silver hair tied at the nape of his neck. His eyes, blank, white, unreadable, looked like glass left out in frost. A deep stillness surrounded him, as if even the wind bent to avoid him.
The Threnari had never seen his like.
"I am Nyzekh," he said. "Virak'tai Warden of the Stormguard. Blacktide Legion."
He glanced at the fire, then to Connach. "May I drink?"
Connach hesitated, then handed over a horn filled with dark Threnari wine. Nyzekh drank, savoring it slowly.
"This," he said, wiping his mouth, "could sell in the Eastern Realm. Strong but smooth."
A few of the Threnari exchanged looks. A small gesture, but it shifted the air.
Without ceremony, Nyzekh unslung a small leather pouch, opened it, and passed around dried beef strips. Smoked, cured, cut to the grain. He gestured behind him.
From the trees, two more figures emerged. Dark elves like him, in quiet armor the color of moonless metal. Their helms hung from their belts. Round shields marked with crescent sigils rested on their backs.
They said nothing. But one passed another wine horn. The Threnari shared it.
The strangers did not linger long.
Nyzekh stood. "My commander wishes to speak with your chieftains. A parley. At the standing stones."
"You know what that place means to us," Connach said. "We've bled to keep outsiders off that ground."
"We know," Nyzekh answered. "We have not stepped beyond the threshold. We wait."
Without another word, he turned and vanished into the mist. His companions followed. They left as silently as they came.
The scouts stared into the fire. No one spoke for a time.
Then Tuarin cleared his throat.
"Eorlas, when I do my shit next time, watch over me."
The others blinked. Then a few snorted. One barked a short laugh.
Eorlas shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Aye, Tuarin. Next time, I'll guard your arse like it's the Stone Gate itself."
The wine horn made another round, slower this time, and the warmth of it returned to the circle.
The fire hissed in the rain, and smoke trailed over the moor.
Parley
Rain swept sideways across the green ridges of Threnar Isle. The wind howled through the yew trees like an old lament, tugging at the war-banners planted along the bluff. One bore the Stormguard sigil. The other, the Broken Antler of the Fiadh'an Pact.
Between them stood Commander Altan, his black cloak soaked, his spear planted in the earth beside him.
The ground beneath his boots was ancient and defiant. Like the people who had walked it for centuries.
Across from him stood Caellach mac Riann, the Stormborn Chieftain of Clan Morr'du. His hair was braided in warrior's cords, a silver torc at his throat. Beside him stood the bone-eyed seer Aoife of the Shard and Maebh the Silent, her face half-covered by an oiled crow-feather hood.
Behind Altan stood Chaghan, his First Stormguard, and several captains of the Blacktide Spear Corps. Scarred, silent, and sharp-eyed, they were the tip of the eastern blade, the division tasked with breaking the Dazhum spine.
Between them, in a shallow fire circle ringed with obsidian stones, the agreement was laid in words.
"You will have your customs. Your dead will be buried by your rites. Your law will hold in your villages," Altan said, voice low. "But trade flows east. You will be protected under Stormguard banner. Your warriors will be trained with our cohort. Your enemies are ours. As long as your oath stands, so shall your land."
Caellach studied him with the weight of generations behind his gaze. "And our poets?" he asked. "Will they still sing in the halls, or will silence be demanded in place of truth? And the god-stones, will they be left standing, or pulled down like the statues of empire? What of our right to speak the old tongue beneath the stars, and take vengeance when blood is spilled?"
Altan met the stormborn's eyes without flinching. "We came here to break empire, not replace it. What we offer is shield, not shackle. So long as your blades do not turn on us, your songs will echo, your gods will remain untouched, and your tongues will not be silenced. We fight to keep the sky wide and the ground free."
The silence that followed was long and unsettled. The wind pressed low across the moor. Smoke from the fire circled inward.
Then the druid stirred.
Aoife of the Shard leaned over the flame, her veil of bone-beads clicking softly. In her hands, a rune-bone burned with faint glyph-light. She turned it once, twice, then pressed it into the ash and watched the glow fade.
Her voice was quiet, but it carried beyond the circle.
"No shadow coils behind his words. No venom lingers on his breath. The pact may hold."
Caellach spat into the fire. "Then let the pact be sealed."
A carved bone token, a broken antler shard, was pressed into Altan's hand. In return, he offered a storm-knot medallion of carved obsidian.
The Pact of Ash and Antler was forged.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Caellach glanced sideways. "Where is your dark warden, the one who came to my son's fire last night?"
Altan gave a small nod.
From the tree line, as if conjured by wind and rain, Nayzekh stepped forward without a word. His dark armor was streaked with mist, silver hair tied back. His expression, as ever, unreadable.
Caellach studied him. Then stepped forward and extended a carved drinking horn, filled to the brim with dark wine.
"The best of our vintage," he said. "My son told me you had a liking for the brew."
Nayzekh accepted it with a bow of his head.
"It was strong," he said. "But smooth. Your land has a generous tongue."
He drank deeply, then fastened the horn to his belt with care.
Caellach nodded. "It is yours. A small gesture of Threnari hospitality."
Then, from beneath his cloak, Nayzekh drew a knife. It was dark-handled, the blade finely curved and pale like forged ice.
"From the best blacksmith in the Stormguard," he said. "The steel comes from my homeland, far north of this continent. The wind cuts colder there, but the fire runs deep."
He offered the blade to Caellach with both hands.
The chieftain took it, slowly turning the knife in his hand.
A warrior's gift. And an unspoken oath between watchers of mountain and sea.
They said no more.
Above them, the storm moved east. Smoke trailed over moor and stone. And somewhere beyond the cliffs, the warships of the Outer Host waited, quiet as wolves in the fog.