The drums came at midnight.
Not the rhythmic war cadence of marching men, but something older, primal. Deep-throated, irregular. They didn't echo—they devoured sound. Every beat seemed to pull the air out of Fort Thorne's lungs.
Duncan stood atop the eastern wall, cloak whipping in the wind. His knuckles clenched white around the spyglass.
Through the swirling fog, he could just make them out—shapes. Broad, hunched figures that walked like men but moved like beasts. Covered in bones. Some wore ribs like chestplates. Others had skulls mounted on their shoulders.
One dragged a hammer the size of a tree trunk, another had glowing fangs… too many of them.
"Hollow Fangs," Kael said grimly beside him. "But that's impossible. They were wiped out in the First Rift War."
Brannoc tightened his grip on his bow. "Looks like they didn't get the memo."
Duncan lowered the spyglass.
"No," he said. "They were never wiped out. Just buried."
The Hollowed
The creatures didn't attack right away.
They lined up.
A grotesque mockery of formation, standing in rows, twitching, snarling—but still waiting. Their leader stood at the front, distinct from the rest.
It wore a cloak of moss-draped hide, its face hidden behind a beast skull fused to its own head. Antlers curved backward like black iron scythes.
It didn't shout. Didn't move. Just watched.
Duncan could feel its gaze. Not through the eyes—but through something deeper. Something… inside.
He stepped back from the wall.
"They're waiting for something," he muttered.
Kael raised a brow. "Orders?"
"Or a signal."
Maeron arrived at the parapet, flanked by two of his silver-clad guards.
"They're not attacking yet," Duncan said.
"They will," Maeron replied calmly. "They always do."
Call to Arms
That night, the fort was a blur of movement.
Ballista crews rolled massive bolts into position. Wildborn scouts sharpened barbed javelins. The Iron Dominion soldiers stood in stoic formation, their polished armor gleaming under the torchlight.
Duncan addressed the troops from the central platform, voice firm, steady.
"We don't know what these creatures are. We don't know who commands them. But we do know this—they bleed. And anything that bleeds can be brought down."
Cheers rose—forced, shaky, but real.
He turned to his officers. "Brannoc, focus the archers along the northern slope. Kael, command the wildborn flank. I'll take the eastern gate."
"And me?" Maeron asked from the shadows.
Duncan hesitated. "You're not my soldier."
"No," Maeron said with a faint smile. "I'm your sword. Use me."
Night Siege
The attack came at the third hour of night.
Not with siege towers or ladders—but with climbing. The Hollow Fangs crawled up the walls like spiders, claws digging into stone, silent until they reached the top.
Then came the roar.
Not one voice—but hundreds. Beastial, broken, unnatural.
Duncan met the first attacker head-on, driving his spear through its throat. It flailed, howling, until Kael's axe took off its arm and the creature tumbled off the wall.
Brannoc's archers fired volleys, each arrow tipped with toxin from jungle stalker glands. The beasts screamed as they were struck, but they kept coming.
One creature reached the ballista crew and tore through them before Maeron arrived—his blade humming with a vibration that split stone.
He moved like a ghost. Efficient. Terrifying.
Within minutes, three Hollow Fangs lay dismembered at his feet.
The Beast-Walker's Chant
Then, the leader stepped forward.
From the fog, it raised its arms and began to chant in a guttural, broken tongue. The beasts around it stilled. Even the wounded paused, trembling.
The air thickened.
And from the ground… something rose.
A twisted chimeric boar, fused with bark and steel, tusks wreathed in flame.
Duncan stared, stunned. "They're not summoning. They're… raising."
"Corrupted wild," Kael spat. "Twisted by the Hollow's rites."
The creature charged the wall.
"Ballista!" Duncan shouted.
Brannoc aimed—but the beast moved faster than anything its size should.
It smashed into the outer gate, splintering wood, throwing defenders like dolls.
Duncan leapt from the top of the rampart, blade drawn, landing hard near the creature's neck.
He drove his sword into its eye—and it screamed.
The scream was not just pain.
It was recognition.
The Whisper Returns
As the boar staggered, Duncan felt a voice slide into his thoughts.
"Child of the Throne. Blood of the Wild. Why do you fight us?"
Duncan gritted his teeth, shoving deeper with the blade.
"You carry the Mark. You were made for this. Rule with us."
He pulled the blade free and jammed it between the creature's ribs. The boar shuddered—and collapsed, crumbling into blackened bark and bone.
Duncan dropped to one knee, gasping.
Kael reached him. "You alright?"
He didn't answer.
Because in the beast's dying breath… he'd seen something.
A memory that wasn't his.
A throne made of roots.
A crown of horns.
And eyes—his own—reflecting in a mirror of obsidian.