The scent of ash drifted ahead of the army long before their bodies arrived.
Kael could smell it on the wind—thick, oily, unnatural. It clung to the very stones of Fort Thorne's battlements like a sickness. Even the sky above had darkened, as if mourning something no one had yet spoken aloud.
Brannoc stood beside him on the wall, eyes narrowed toward the treeline.
"They've changed," the old veteran muttered. "Look at their movement. Not wild. Not feral. They're… organized."
Kael nodded grimly. Below them, the garrison bustled with tension. Steel clanged. Ballista crews reloaded. Archers checked their arrows. The walls, once thought impenetrable, now felt like a cage.
They were preparing for a siege.
But this was no ordinary warhost.
This was Hollowfang—and it was evolving.
The First Sight
The beasts emerged from the mists as dusk fell.
Massive hulking shapes, limbs wrapped in unnatural sinew and thick patches of blackened fur. Their eyes glowed an eerie white-blue, and some bore crude armor—not scavenged, but crafted.
At the front marched a creature nearly three stories tall, dragging a spiked banner formed from bones fused with iron. Its maw was ringed with secondary fangs, and its back shimmered with molten patterns—runes.
Kael inhaled sharply.
"They've been marked," he whispered.
Brannoc spat to the ground. "No beasts do that. Someone's guiding them."
He didn't say what they both feared:
The Hollowed weren't just mutating. They were being led.
The Defense of Fort Thorne
Torches lit the ramparts.
Captain Melar barked orders, her armor dark with soot and sweat. The garrison—once 600 strong—had been thinned to half that after the last scouting missions. Many were fresh recruits. Too young. Too green.
But there was no time for doubt.
"Archers, wait for my signal!" Kael shouted, taking command of the western wall. "Ballista teams, aim for the larger ones! Focus fire!"
Below, the beasts growled, not with rage—but with restraint.
Then the bone-banner fell forward with a thunderous clang.
And the Hollowfangs charged.
The Siege Begins
The ground shook with their advance.
Kael loosed the first arrow.
It struck the lead beast clean in the throat—but it didn't fall. Instead, it screamed, tearing the shaft out and throwing it aside.
That scream echoed through the army, and something changed. The air vibrated. The beasts moved faster. Smarter.
They split into flanking clusters, some darting left to draw fire, others burrowing toward the walls with sickening precision.
From the towers, ballista bolts tore through fur and flesh—but the Hollowfangs kept coming.
Brannoc grabbed a spear and hurled it into the chest of a charging brute just as it leapt for the gate.
It collapsed, twitching.
Then stood again.
Break in the Line
A screech erupted from the far flank.
One of the eastern towers crumbled in a spray of stone and flame—blown apart from within.
Kael's eyes widened.
"They have firecasters?"
Below, a group of Hollowfangs emerged from the wreckage—beasts with their jaws fused to strange devices, spewing bursts of molten alchemy.
Brannoc cursed. "They're using our own relics against us."
Kael gritted his teeth.
This wasn't a horde. It was a hostile army. Tactically aware. Efficient. Engineered.
"Fall back to inner defense lines!" he shouted. "Reinforce the south courtyard!"
The Flame Returns
Just as the beasts began breaching the lower wall, a blinding flash lit the northern ridge.
A blue-white streak of light carved through the smoke, landing amidst the Hollowfang ranks with the force of a falling star.
Fire exploded outward, and beasts screamed in pain.
Kael looked up.
A lone rider approached, cloak billowing behind him, his blade blazing like a comet.
"By the gods," Brannoc whispered, grinning. "He made it."
Duncan had returned.
He rode through the fire like a spirit of vengeance, the Emberblade cleaving a path through the enemy.
Every swing ignited bone and flesh.
Every step broke their momentum.
A Rallying Cry
The soldiers roared.
"Flamebearer!" someone shouted.
"Duncan!" came another voice.
Hope surged through the ranks like lightning.
Kael seized the moment. "All units—push forward! Don't give them time to regroup!"
Brannoc grabbed his axe. "We're not dying today."
The defenders surged out from the inner wall, blades drawn, shields raised. Duncan moved like a spearhead, carving into the enemy lines with surgical ferocity.
Even the massive bone-banner beast turned from the gate, sensing something it had not known in centuries.
Fear.
The Turning Point
Within moments, the western courtyard was cleared.
The beasts fell back, dragging their wounded, screeching in some guttural tongue Duncan half-recognized from the old visions.
They weren't just regrouping.
They were retreating.
Duncan stood among the smoldering corpses, Emberblade held low, breath steady.
Kael approached, wiping blood from his brow.
"You took your time," he said.
Duncan looked toward the ridge. "Had to kill a memory on the way."
Brannoc stepped beside them. "Whatever you found out there… it's pushing them. Mutating them."
Duncan nodded, unsheathing the spiral disc and showing it to them both.
"We're not just fighting beasts," he said. "We're fighting what they remember."