The Dominion fortress of Hightower Reach rose like a black spike from the northern cliffs, its walls carved from iron-veined stone and reinforced with rune-locked steel. At its crown, a strange dome of dark crystal pulsed faintly, mirroring the overcast sky. It was not just a fortress—it was a sentinel, watching over every trade route and beastpath from the Wildmarch to the Dominion corelands.
And now, Duncan stood at its gates.
A thousand men and women gathered behind him. The Bannerless. The Flameborn. Wildland tribes, mercenaries, oathsworn exiles. An army made not of oaths to empire, but of broken chains and rising flame.
They had crossed hell to get here.
Now it was time to bring hell with them.
Kaelen surveyed the tower's defenses from a rocky bluff. "Four ballista lines on the outer wall. Inner shields likely reinforced with bloodrunes. Main gate is double-tiered steel, probably weight-triggered. Even if we breach the walls, they'll fall back to the inner sanctum."
Alra, crouched beside him, pointed to the central tower. "The crystal dome. That's not natural. It's humming with Dominion field energy—probably suppressing beast movement."
Kael nodded. "We can't win this with a straight charge."
Duncan stood behind them, quiet, gaze fixed on the keep. Ashborn was strapped across his back, its hilt wrapped in fresh storm-hide.
"We won't charge," he said. "We infiltrate first. Burn the gears before we break the gate."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "A raid party?"
Duncan turned. "No. A funeral procession."
That night, under cover of stormclouds, Duncan led a strike team through the old mountain fissures below the cliff-face. The Dominion had once mined iron from these veins—and left behind forgotten tunnels.
They crawled through darkness for hours, passing bones, rusted rail tracks, and the sound of distant machinery.
Then, light.
Faint. Flickering.
They emerged into the understructure of Hightower.
It was a place of horror.
Slaves, chained in rows, powered the fortress from below—turning ancient Dominion gears, bleeding into mana-drains, fueling shield runes with their life essence. Many were barely alive. Some were children. Others—beastkin hybrids, malformed from Dominion experiments.
Duncan's fists clenched.
Kaelen whispered, "If we ignite the core gears, the shields fall."
Alra was already placing powder charges at support points.
Duncan approached a slave chained to the mana wheel. His eyes were pale. Empty.
"I'm Duncan," he said quietly. "We're here to burn it down."
The slave didn't speak.
He simply nodded—once—and reached out with a frail hand to touch Duncan's armor.
Then Duncan stood.
"Light it."
The first explosion rocked the fortress at dawn.
The mana gears burst in a cascade of fire and collapsing steel. Shield runes on the outer walls flickered, then failed. Fires climbed the inner towers.
And from the cliffs came the roar of the Bannerless charge.
Hundreds surged down the slope. Flameborn javelins rained from the ridges. Ballistae atop the wall tried to return fire, but beasts—massive lizards and tusked tuskarons from the forest—smashed through their ranks with primal fury.
Duncan mounted one of the ridge beasts, leaping from its back into the shattered courtyard.
Ashborn met Dominion steel.
He cut through the first rank like cloth.
Kaelen followed, leading warriors into the lower halls. Alra ascended the left tower, targeting the dome's nexus. Screams echoed from the halls as Dominion elites—Templars clad in blackfire plate—pushed back with brutal discipline.
Duncan found one of them—a captain, silver-blooded, spear in hand, eyes glowing with Dominion runelight.
"You defy the Crown," the captain said.
"I am the Crown," Duncan growled—and drove Ashborn through the man's chest.
The sword drank the light.
At the top of the central tower, Alra reached the dome's control ring.
It pulsed violently.
Beneath it, a core stone—pure Dominion crystal—was tethered with chains of mana iron.
She placed a charge.
And lit it.
The explosion was not fire—but silence.
A burst of anti-field, like the scream of stars, ripped across the sky. The dome shattered into black shards, raining over the fortress.
And across the horizon, the beasts howled.
Free.
By noon, the fortress had fallen.
Dominion banners were ripped from their poles. Captives freed. Survivors treated.
Hightower Reach was no longer a bastion.
It was a pyre.
Duncan stood atop the central spire, the Crown in one hand, Ashborn in the other.
Kaelen stepped beside him. "You've just severed the Dominion's spine in the east."
Alra looked up at the rising smoke. "And signaled every rebel faction in the frontier. They'll come."
Duncan looked north—toward the heartlands.
"They'd better," he said. "Because now we're marching straight into their throat."