The march began at dawn.
A thousand footsteps. No drums, no horns. Only the crunch of boots and clawed feet against frost-crusted soil. Above, the sun rose over the distant broken horizon, its light glinting off jagged armor and beasthide cloaks. The First Beast led the vanguard beside Duncan, its shadow long and regal, a living banner none dared question.
Duncan stood taller than he had in months. Not because of pride—but because he carried memory now. The fire he'd restored pulsed through his every breath, not as a weapon but as a bond.
Behind him followed the Beastborne Legion: wild-tamers, broken war-veterans, exile-mages, and flame-marked wanderers from the forgotten corners of the world. A living tide of those discarded by the Dominion's machine—now reborn through fire, memory, and oath.
Their destination: the Ironwilds.
Their purpose: uncover the truth of the Dominion's founding.
Mora Vale's Warning
On the third day of the march, Mora Vale rode beside him.
Her serpent-eyed beast sniffed at the air constantly, scales bristling whenever the wind turned north.
"They'll strike before we reach the Vale," she said grimly.
"Who?" Duncan asked.
"Someone watching us from within the Dominion. Maybe even someone who was waiting for a moment like this—one they feared."
Duncan glanced at her. "You mean me?"
She didn't smile. "You lit a fire in the bones of every warrior who's ever lost something to the Dominion's lies. That kind of flame attracts more than followers."
"Saboteurs?" he guessed.
She nodded. "And worse."
As if on cue, the wind shifted again—and this time, the howls rose with it.
Low. Unnatural.
Not beast.
Not man.
Something in between.
The Hollow Stalkers
They attacked at dusk.
Silent at first—no horns, no footsteps. Just flickering shapes in the tallgrass, crawling with spindly grace and gleaming metal limbs. Their bodies were too thin, too precise. And their faces—no mouths. Just a single rune glowing at the center of their forehead.
Old Dominion war-creations.
Duncan shouted, but the First Beast moved faster.
It struck like a falling star, flame bursting from its fangs as it crushed the first attacker into burning slag. The scent of ozone and rotted mana filled the air.
"Stalkers!" Mora Vale bellowed. "They're using old null-blooded frames! Aim for the rune!"
Crossbows fired from the rear lines. Spears flew. But the Stalkers were too fast—sliding under shields, leaping across beast mounts, cleaving through unarmored gaps like phantom blades.
Duncan unsheathed his reformed Emberblade, the runes singing in warning.
"Form lines!" he yelled. "Hold! Push them to the ridge!"
The Fire Holds
The battle raged.
Every Stalker slain erupted in a burst of dark mist—memory imploded, not dispersed. They weren't meant to live. Only to erase.
Duncan moved through the chaos like flame given form—parrying, striking, stepping to protect and guide. The blade responded to his thoughts now, burning brighter each time he fought to remember—not just to kill.
Beside him, the First Beast tore two more in half, its chest heaving. Mora Vale struck with surgical precision, her twin blades dancing like extensions of her will.
The beastborne held their lines.
Not because they had trained together—but because the fire bound them.
A fire of shared pain, shared purpose.
They endured.
And when the last Stalker fell, crumpling with a final hiss of dark smoke, the survivors did not cheer.
They simply stood taller.
They were becoming soldiers.
Something Watches
Later, as the wounded were tended and the dead laid upon pyres, Duncan stood apart from the others, watching the horizon.
The Ironwilds were still far—maybe two weeks of rough travel. And they'd just survived an ambush by ancient war machines not seen in over a century.
He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
"They were watching," he muttered.
The First Beast rumbled low in agreement.
"Something ancient watches this road. Something that remembers... but does not forgive."
Duncan clenched his fist.
"We need to move faster."
The Map That Wasn't
That night, a scout returned from the hills with a strange object: a blackstone tablet etched in spiraling runes—pre-Dominion glyphs, older than even Mora Vale could read.
It pulsed with faint heat when Duncan touched it.
Images flooded his mind—not visions, but paths. Hidden trails. Collapsed roads. Forgotten bridges buried in ash.
He saw a faster way.
A dangerous one, yes—but one that bypassed the next Dominion fort entirely.
"We'll take it," Duncan said.
Mora Vale frowned. "Through the Hollow Vales? That region's cursed."
Duncan nodded.
"So are we."