The path to Dunemar Pass wound like a scar between gray mountains, jagged cliffs towering over the riders like the ribs of some long-dead titan. The air grew colder with each mile, the trees thinning until only twisted pines clung to the crags. Snow dusted the rocks, though it hadn't snowed in weeks.
Duncan rode at the front, eyes scanning every ridge.
The silence wasn't just unnatural—it was wrong.
Kael muttered behind him, "There should be birds. Ravens at least."
"There should be patrols," Brannoc growled. "Dunemar Outpost holds a full garrison. We should've seen a scout by now."
They saw the smoke first—thin, black threads rising beyond the next bend.
Not the steady smoke of cookfires.
Burning wood. Burning flesh.
Duncan drew his sword.
"Form a wedge. Advance with shields raised."
Ash and Stone
The outpost was in ruins.
Barricades shattered. Gates burned down to blackened stumps. Stone walls stained with long streaks of dried blood. Bodies lay scattered in grotesque patterns, many of them untouched by blade or claw—twisted, as if something had crushed them from the inside.
No arrows. No scorch marks. No signs of beast tracks.
And no survivors.
Kael knelt beside one of the corpses—a young soldier, face contorted in terror, fingers clawed into the dirt.
"No external wounds," she muttered. "Heart stopped. Veins black."
Duncan walked through the carnage like a man in a dream. Every step echoed against the cold stones. His eyes were drawn to the far wall—where the inner tower had partially collapsed.
A strange humming came from beneath the rubble.
He gestured to Brannoc. "Clear it."
The Door Beneath
It wasn't a cellar.
It was a vault.
Carved from ancient stone, deeper than the rest of the outpost. Hidden behind a false wall now broken by the tower's collapse. Its doorway was lined with old runes—some matching the ones from the Verdant Hollow tomb.
Kael whispered, "This wasn't built by the Empire."
Duncan stepped inside.
The air turned colder with every stair. Torches flickered. The silence grew deeper, like the earth itself was listening.
At the bottom, the hallway ended in a vast, circular chamber. In the center stood a stone pedestal surrounded by rings of carved bone—horns, claws, ribs. Upon the pedestal lay an orb, pulsing softly with black and green light.
It was alive.
And it was dreaming.
Echoes
Duncan stepped forward.
The orb pulsed once—and suddenly, the chamber was gone.
He stood in a memory not his own.
A jungle burned. Beast-creatures roared in agony. At the center, a man in gold armor drove a spear into a howling wolf-headed beast. All around him, soldiers in Empire colors fought alongside strange, pale-eyed priests.
Above them, the sky cracked, and from the fissure poured a darkness not made of smoke—but of will. A hunger without form. An intelligence without shape.
The man in gold turned, face twisted in triumph—and horror.
Duncan snapped back to the present, gasping.
Kael was shouting his name. Brannoc had drawn his axe.
The orb had begun to spin.
And from the walls… shadows peeled free.
The Unformed
They weren't beasts.
They weren't men.
Figures made of darkness and smoke, vaguely human but shifting constantly—arms too long, faces featureless, voices a chorus of whispers. Their very presence bent the light, warped sound, chilled breath.
One lunged.
Kael speared it mid-air, only for her weapon to pass through—no resistance, no flesh. Yet the thing recoiled, shrieking in rage.
Brannoc swung his axe. Same result.
Duncan gritted his teeth and stepped forward.
The medallion flared—bright silver light spilling across the chamber.
The shadows screamed.
They recoiled from him, stumbling back into the walls like mist dissolving in sunlight.
Duncan raised his voice. "Back to the dark!"
With a final burst of light, the chamber fell still.
The shadows were gone.
The Whisper That Remains
As the light faded, the orb shattered—its fragments dissolving into smoke. The bones around the pedestal blackened, then crumbled to dust.
Duncan stood panting, sweat slick on his brow.
Kael helped him up. "What the hell were those?"
Brannoc shook his head. "They weren't Hollow Fangs. Or beasts. I've never seen anything like that."
"They weren't alive," Duncan said. "They were… memories. Echoes of something from before."
Kael frowned. "From before what?"
Duncan looked at the spot where the orb had been.
"Before the Empire. Before even the beast-kings. Something older. Something forgotten."
Outside, the wind began to howl through the broken tower.
The March Continues
They burned the outpost.
All of it.
Not from fear, but necessity. Whatever had seeped from that vault had touched the walls, the stones, the air. And Duncan wouldn't risk it spreading.
As the flames rose behind them, the riders turned east again—toward the capital.
Whatever lay beneath the mountains wasn't sleeping anymore.
And Duncan could feel it watching him.