They marched under low cloud and cold light. Rows of bronze and blacksteel shimmered in the wind, shields strapped tight, heads bowed against the inland chill. The command banners of the Stormguard hung stiff, each bearing the iron-rayed sun of the Imperator's war hosts.
The cohort advanced in disciplined formation, phalanx ranks six deep, supply mules and engineers positioned to the rear. Boots thudded in steady rhythm over wet soil and stone. Along the ridgelines, signal flags rippled under the watchful eyes of spotters.
To their flanks moved the Threnari warband, their battle-green tartan blending with the moss and terrain. Falcatas hung at their sides. Boeotian shields and tidecut spears rested in practiced grips. They kept pace without drums, moccasins steady over the frostbitten grass.
Connach of Clann Durnach led them with cold focus. Veteran of older wars, his commands were brief and direct. His warband fanned outward, scouts ahead, archers ready. No need for words; each knew their role. They weren't here for loyalty. They were here for old debts paid in Dazhum blood.
"Shields high," Connach ordered as the path narrowed. The Threnari adjusted without breaking stride.
"Movement on the eastern ridge," came Tuarin's voice.
"Eyes sharp."
Ahead, a thick mist broke, revealing a broken stone circle atop the rise. Within it stood the old gate, its frame bound by rune-etched monoliths. Ancient symbols flared dimly across the surface, resisting siege.
And then came the clash.
The Blacktide, Stormguard elites, surged forward through the center. Their ranks hit the battlefield like a tide of blades and iron. Flanking them, the Threnari closed in, cutting down the twisted Nerathil, fused monsters of rusted metal and bone.
Wounded Veilguard stood at the gate. Only five remained of the original twenty who scouted this island. Relief broke across their faces as the reinforcements arrived.
Bruga swept forward, Pyrebite glowing with heat as he cleaved through a Nerathil's armored limb. Ryoku struck with surgical precision, his Resolve Blade severing spines in motion. Wen Tu absorbed enemy charges with his staff, redirecting impact across the ground.
Nyzekh tore through a cluster with space-warped sabers, unmaking foes mid-scream.
And then came Altan.
He walked through the ruined gateway, cloak billowing, face unreadable. The Nerathil turned and with a single slash, the creature split apart, molten bone and broken steel collapsing in a hiss of steam.
The gate opened.
The Stormguard entered. Only ash and silence remained.
Altan turned to the nearest Veilguard. "Where's Warden Kael?"
The Veilguard hesitated, then gestured silently.
They led him to the innermost part of the stone circle. There, beneath a runed overhang, Kael lay wounded, surrounded by the remnants of his squad. A warmage knelt beside him, sweat streaking his face.
"He's stable for now," the mage said without rising. "I've placed him in frost stasis to keep the rot from spreading."
Altan crouched. "Rot?"
"There are two types of wounds," the mage explained. "The ordinary cuts from ancient blades can be healed. But the bites, those carry a sickness. We lost some of our unit. They changed. Turned into Nerathil."
He glanced at Kael. "The stasis spell holds the infection at bay. Inside the stone circle, the rot slows. Something in the runes."
Altan rose and signaled a runner. "Send word to Yezari. Bring the wounded into the stone circle and check for the two types of wounds. Isolate anyone with rot."
He looked across the camp.
"Everyone is to be checked."
Later, the order was carried out. Armor was unclasped. Every soldier was inspected by fellow squadmates and medics. Out of the 1,440 who participated in the battle, 300 lay dead, and 200 more were wounded. Of those, 10 showed signs of rot.
Altan approached the warmage again. "Symptoms?"
The mage nodded wearily. "It starts with fever. The rot spreads faster in those attuned to shadow. But fire, air, and water affinities seem immune. Some others show slower progression depending on their elemental balance."
"And the time before full transformation?"
"Three to five days," the mage answered grimly. "After that, they lose themselves."
Altan's face hardened. "Then we begin isolation now."
He turned to another runner. "Send word to the main camp at the beachhead. Bring Daalo, the chief engineer, along with his crafting tools and key materials. He is to be escorted by Stormguards."
Altan also ordered the engineers and warmages present to begin immediate fortification.
"Repair the gate. Reinforce the walls. I want trenches with ward traps laid outside the perimeter."
The area they now held was defensible. The wall encircled the entire hilltop, a full ring of ancient stone eight feet high and five wide. Every stone bore carved runes that pulsed faintly. The surface was smooth, the edges seamless, as though cut by some lost art.
Inside the walls lay the ancient stone circle, and beyond it, Kael's resting place.
The site could hold the wounded and what remained of the command.
They had ground. Now they had to keep it.
The cohorts set up camp. Guards were posted along the walls, rune fire lit beyond the trenches to hold the mist at bay. The perimeter was tight, watch rotations assigned, spell wards reinforced every six hours. The engineers had dug trench lines in front of the eastern approach and laid the first sequence of ward traps before dusk.
Within the walls, the Hospitallers worked in quiet urgency. Tents had been raised for the wounded, lean-tos and windbreaks positioned around the frost-stasis zones. The air inside the circle felt thin, reverent. Old power hummed in the stones.
As the hours passed, the symptoms began.
A young scout from the Moorfire auxiliary was the first to fall, his skin pale, breath shallow, fever building fast.
"He was fine an hour ago," a Hospitaller muttered, checking the scout's pulse. "It's in the blood now."
"Elemental affinity?" Yezari asked, kneeling beside the wounded.
"Shadow," came the reply.
Yezari nodded once. "He won't last the night without stasis."
She placed both hands on his chest, fingers splayed. A low, crystalline hum spread as frost layered over his skin, slow, deliberate. The scout's breathing eased. For now.
More followed. Two Stormguard from the Blacktide collapsed near the medicae infirmary. One coughed black fluid. Another trembled, eyes unfocused.
"Get them under," Yezari called. "Now."
A Hospitaller hesitated. "We're running out of clear markers, ma'am. Some of the wounded don't show symptoms, but they might be carrying the rot."
"Then mark by elemental type," Yezari ordered. "Red band for fire and air, blue for water. Grey for mixed. Black for shadow." She looked at the growing line of the injured. "Everyone with shadow alignment gets checked twice."
She turned to a nearby Stormguard sergeant. "Pull your squad. Help the Hospitallers check every soldier who fought. Every wound gets logged. No exceptions."
The sergeant saluted sharply. "Aye, Commander."
In the center of the stone circle stood a monolith. Altan remained there, lost in thought, seemingly in a trance.
Daalo arrived, accompanied by Supreme Warden Chaghan of the Stormguard Elite, who led the escort. They approached Altan but stopped short as they saw him meditating.
Chaghan raised a hand. "No one disturbs the commander."
He turned and assumed command of the camp. At his command tent, he summoned the surviving Veilguard.
"Tell me what happened. What did you find at the ancient ruins?"
The Veilguard sat, silent for a moment, then began to speak.
Their story would unfold in the next chapter.