The forest did not stir.
It listened.
From the cliffs of Brontheon to the frostlines of Druvadir, the winds carried whispers — not of storm, but of movement. The trees remembered the sound: boots that left no tracks. Voices that never rose above breath. And antlers—woven not from bone, but from thorn and oath.
They were coming.
And they carried no banner.
Only silence.
At the edge of the Heartgrove, beneath the canopy where no bird dared sing, the Wildguard stood gathered.
Twelve in number.
Twelve cloaked in moss, fur, and ironwood. And at their center, a taller figure — her mask carved from stagbone, hair braided with runes, her voice heard only by the roots.
Captain Ilyari.
Sworn Fang of the Matriarch.
She raised her hand, and the wind fell still.
Before them stood a path few had walked. A road of stone and ash, veined into the mountain spine — leading toward the Dwarven Gates.
"Your orders," Ilyari said softly, "are not conquest."
Her voice was calm, but not kind.
"They will think us spies. Saboteurs. They may raise walls or spears."
None of the Wildguard answered. They had no need.
"We do not strike unless struck. We do not speak unless to warn."
She turned, and the forest darkened behind her.
"The Riftborn is awakening. And so too is the thing he carries."
One of the younger rangers stepped forward — a girl no older than twenty winters, her helm crowned with woven ivy.
"Do we kill him, Captain?"
"No."
Ilyari's gaze was fixed on the horizon, where mountains bled smoke into the sky.
"We protect him."
She let the words linger.
"From the dwarves."
A pause.
"From the Rift."
Another.
"From himself."
Then she turned.
And the Wildguard moved like shadows unchained.
They marched without sound.
No horn. No warcry. Only footfall and breath. Deer fled. Owls watched. The old spirits of Thornevale stirred in their slumber and whispered their approval.
It was said that when the Wildguard marched, the very paths opened for them.
But as they neared Druvadir's ancient southern wall, even the wind began to fear.
The air stank of smoke.
Old smoke — not from trees, but stone. Forge-fire. Dragon breath.
The mountain had woken.
And it did not like what it saw.
At the foot of the stone road, near the old dwarven gate, the Wildguard halted.
Captain Ilyari stepped forward. She unslung a carved horn — not of war, but of announcement. Its mouth was bound with runes, its body wrapped in vines soaked with moonblood.
She raised it—
And blew.
The sound was not loud.
But it traveled far.
Low, like breath through leaves. Sharp, like a blade kissing bark. And deep, very deep, like the roots that heard the Wyrm cry and remembered what it once burned.
Within minutes, the gates of Druvadir stirred.
Shouts echoed. Lights flared.
Archers lined the walls. Dwarves shouted in old tongue. Horns called alarm.
"Hold!" one of them barked. "State your business!"
Ilyari did not shout.
She stepped forward again, mask catching the torchlight.
"We come under the Matriarch's word," she said. "Not for war. For balance."
A dwarf captain glared from atop the rampart. "Balance? And what's out of balance, leaf witch?"
Another ranger stepped forward beside Ilyari, cloak marked with the sigil of the Seers.
He spoke calmly.
"The mountain has stirred. The Forge roars. The Gem calls. And your King seeks to chain a fire not meant for iron."
The dwarves fell silent.
Then, steel clattered. A gate-lock turned.
The iron doors groaned open just wide enough for one voice to answer.
"Then enter, envoys of Thornevale," came the voice of a Dwarven Rune-Seer, his tone wary. "But speak quickly. And choose your words like you would a whetstone."
Ilyari stepped forward.
Behind her, the Wildguard followed.
Thirteen shadows.
No weapons drawn.
But no peace in their stride.
Beneath the stone halls of Throneforge, the flames flickered.And above, on the watchtower's edge, the King turned slowly as a whisper reached him:
"The forest has sent its ghosts."