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Chapter 25 - Chapter 25: March to Blackridge

The drums of war echoed through the western roads, not in triumphant cadence, but as warnings—low, distant, and grim. Duncan rode at the head of his force, eyes narrowed against the biting wind that swept through the pine-choked canyons of Westreach. Behind him followed two hundred men and women, warriors of the outer garrisons, deserters from dead forts, and wildborn scouts who knew the smell of rotting magic.

They were not sanctioned by the Ten Lords.

They marched under no imperial banner.

But they marched.

The Journey West

Blackridge lay days ahead, nestled in a high valley between twin ridgelines of obsidian cliffs. Once a thriving stronghold guarding the western pass, it had gone silent two weeks ago. No scouts returned. No ravens flew back. The Empire wrote it off as a casualty of minor skirmishes.

But Duncan knew better.

The ground was wrong. The very air felt warped the closer they drew. The sky was dim even at noon, shrouded in a haze that wasn't weather. And every few miles, they passed wreckage—burnt wagons, overturned carts, armor flaked with acid-burns.

Kael knelt beside one such wreck, fingers brushing a splintered shield half-melted into the stone.

"No beasts did this," she murmured. "This was... unshaped."

Brannoc said nothing. He just adjusted his grip on his axe and kept walking.

The City Below

They reached the ridge above Blackridge on the sixth day.

What they saw froze even the hardiest warriors.

The city was intact—but wrong.

The outer walls stood, but no torches burned along the ramparts. The gates were open, yawning like a broken jaw. Buildings inside were undamaged, yet no people moved through the streets. No smoke rose from chimneys. No sound carried across the wind.

Except for one thing.

From the city center rose a pillar of light—dark and pale at once, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat. Around it, strange shapes drifted through the air. Some were beastlike. Others... were not.

Duncan stared.

"They didn't fall to siege," he said softly. "They were called."

Kael tensed. "A summoning."

Brannoc swore under his breath. "That's no spell. That's an invitation."

Descent Into Silence

They entered the city cautiously, weapons drawn, every step echoing too loud in the stillness.

The houses were untouched. Doors left open. Meals left on tables, half-eaten. It was as if the people had vanished mid-breath.

Duncan paused near a well, reaching down to touch the stone.

It was warm.

Kael whispered, "No corpses. No blood."

"Doesn't mean they lived," Brannoc muttered. "This is worse."

They followed the pillar to the city square.

At its center stood a monolith—black crystal shot through with veins of silver. Around it, bodies knelt in circles, unmoving.

Dozens of them. Townsfolk, guards, children.

Eyes wide open.

Unblinking.

Unbreathing.

Duncan's chest tightened. "They're alive."

Kael stepped forward, placing two fingers against a woman's neck. "Heart's beating. But slow. Too slow."

"Sleepwalking," Duncan said. "Or worse."

Then one of the kneeling forms turned.

Not with motion.

But with its face—rotating in place, impossibly smooth, until it was looking straight at Duncan.

And it smiled.

The Hollowed Wake

The stillness shattered.

All at once, the kneelers rose.

But not like people. Their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. Their eyes burned faintly with that same pale-dark light. They didn't speak. They didn't scream. They simply rushed forward.

"Form up!" Kael bellowed.

Steel rang. Crossbows thudded. Duncan drew his sword, the silver flame flaring to life.

He cut through the first Hollowed with ease—but they didn't bleed. They collapsed into black ash, curling into the air and disappearing like smoke in a windless room.

Brannoc cleaved another in half. "These things… they don't care about pain!"

The battle was chaos. But it wasn't a siege.

It was a message.

The Whispering Core

Duncan fought his way to the monolith.

It pulsed with each heartbeat, resonating with the medallion on his chest. A voice—faint but rising—began to whisper.

"You carry it… the seed of flame… the broken oath…"

He slammed his palm against the crystal.

The light burst outward—blinding. The Hollowed shrieked and dropped, seizing in place. The others fell back, clutching their heads.

Then silence.

The monolith cracked.

From within it stepped a figure—robed in pale blue, hooded, face veiled. Not beast. Not man.

Something else.

It looked at Duncan.

"You are late, Heir of Flame."

"But not too late."

And then it crumbled into ash.

Reckoning

After the battle, only half of Duncan's force remained standing.

The rest lay wounded or dead—or worse.

The people of Blackridge remained comatose, untouched but unreachable.

Duncan stood on the high wall as night fell, watching the stars flicker behind the shroud of haze. The medallion pulsed softly now—not in warning, but in recognition.

Kael stood beside him. "That thing… it knew you."

"I think… all of them will."

Brannoc approached, face grim. "If Blackridge fell like this, what happens when the next city is called?"

Duncan looked west, toward the Ashen Highlands.

"They'll answer."

He closed his hand over the medallion.

"And I'll be waiting."

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