By the time Duncan returned to Fort Thorne, the banners had changed.
The red standard of the Empire fluttered alongside a new one—black, stitched with a silver eagle clutching a chain of thorns. Not a local garrison sigil. Not a legion's emblem.
The Inquisitor's banner.
Kael saw it first. Her eyes narrowed beneath her hood. "Emperor's Dogs," she muttered, spitting to the side.
Duncan didn't reply. He could already feel it in the air—the tension, thick as stormclouds, coiling over the courtyard like a noose slowly tightening. His instincts screamed at him to disappear, melt into the trees again.
But he had made his choice. He had taken the burden. And burden meant standing firm.
He dismounted.
The Man in Gray
They didn't even let him inside before the summons came.
A scribe in gray robes, eyes ringed with red ink and fatigue, met him at the gate. "Duncan Blackvale. Field Lieutenant. You are to present yourself immediately in the command hall. Lord Inquisitor Harrex awaits."
Brannoc cursed low under his breath. Kael started to reach for her blade, but Duncan gave her a sharp glance.
"No moves. Not here."
Kael growled, "They'll try to hang you with your own name."
"I know."
He went alone.
Trial Without Chains
The command hall was colder than usual. The hearths were unlit, and every window had been shuttered. A single table stood at the center, behind which sat a man in black-and-silver armor, slim and pale, with hair like polished ash.
Lord Inquisitor Harrex did not look up as Duncan entered.
"Close the door."
Duncan obeyed.
Harrex continued writing with a fine-tipped quill. "You went west without imperial authorization. You returned with your men injured, your armor stained in unregistered blood, and your report missing from the weekly logs."
He finally looked up.
"Explain."
Duncan remained standing.
"There was a crypt. An old one. Beastborn. There was a presence there. A... king. I was called."
Harrex blinked slowly. "Called? By what? A hallucination? A voice from the roots?"
"I don't know."
Harrex stood. He wasn't tall, but he moved with the grace of a blade, sharp and deliberate.
"You carry the mark," he said quietly. "It's beginning to show in your eyes. The fire behind them. The hunger. Do you know how many we've burned for less?"
Duncan stepped forward. "Then burn me. Or listen."
Harrex's expression didn't change.
"You've chosen a dangerous road, Blackvale."
"So has the Empire."
Orders from Shadows
To Duncan's surprise, Harrex didn't arrest him.
Instead, he handed Duncan a sealed scroll, waxed in black.
"A command from High Seat Vorein," he said. "The Hollow Fangs have moved east, toward the pass at Dunemar. The Empire fears they're being driven—herded—by something worse."
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "You want me to go there?"
"You're the only man under fifty who's walked into an ancient tomb and returned breathing," Harrex said dryly. "Consider yourself conscripted—again."
Duncan nodded. "And if I refuse?"
Harrex smiled, cold and perfect. "Then I cut you open and see if your heart still bleeds like a man's."
Preparation
By nightfall, Duncan stood on the outer wall, overlooking the refugee camps beyond Fort Thorne. Kael approached silently, her usual scowl replaced by something softer.
"You're leaving again."
Duncan nodded. "Dunemar Pass. If the beasts get through, the capital could fall."
She kicked at the frost-dusted stones. "You're not coming back this time, are you?"
He didn't answer.
Kael exhaled sharply, then pulled a small object from her pouch. A carved fang, polished and strung on old leather.
"Was my brother's. He died in the Myrshade front. Carried this for luck. You'll need it more than I will."
Duncan took it, fingers closing around it with care.
"Thanks."
She paused, then added, "If you die, I'm dragging you back just to kill you again."
He grinned. "Sounds fair."
March Begins
At dawn, the company rode out.
Brannoc led the vanguard. Kael rode beside Duncan, unofficial but firm in her defiance. The Fire Fang survivors had returned to follow him, whispering stories of crypts and glowing medallions.
Others joined along the road—scouts, wildborn, deserters. Something about Duncan drew them. Not command. Not charisma.
Conviction.
They didn't see a man chasing orders.
They saw a man walking willingly into the mouth of the unknown.
As the trees gave way to barren hills, and the sun hung like a dim coin in the sky, Duncan felt the medallion on his chest pulse once more.