The descent from the Obsidian Arx was not marked by triumph, but by silence.
Not the silence of exhaustion.
The silence of knowing.
Of having seen the edge of something that could not be undone.
Duncan rode ahead of the column, cloak fluttering behind him in the ice-laced wind, but his mind wasn't on the road. It was buried in the fractured images the sphere had shown him — a kingdom of shadows, beasts cloaked in godflesh, and a version of himself that wore a crown forged from ash and grief.
He had thought the Dominion was the enemy.
Now, he was no longer sure.
Beside him, Kaelen tightened the reins of his mount, breaking the stillness. "You've said nothing in two days."
Duncan didn't look at him. "There's nothing to say that won't break the world."
Kaelen grunted. "It's already broken."
From the rear, Alra rode up, her face drawn with concern. "There's a village ahead. Abandoned — or hiding. Shall we stop?"
Duncan considered. His army had marched relentlessly through mountain storm and haunted ruins. They needed rest. But more than that — they needed grounding. To remember they still fought for people, not just ideas.
"Let's stop. Send scouts forward first. I don't want any surprises."
She nodded and rode ahead.
The village — Mirrowatch, according to a cracked signpost — was half-buried in snow. Houses tilted under the weight, rooftops collapsed, doors hanging open. A wind chime of bones clattered on the porch of a chapel with no god left inside.
Duncan dismounted and walked the central road alone.
It felt wrong.
Not ambushed. Not haunted.
Wrong.
He stepped into a house. Everything was still in place — plates on the table, chairs unbroken, a coat hung neatly on the rack.
But there was no dust.
No rot.
No smell.
As if the village hadn't been abandoned…
…but emptied.
He turned as Alra entered behind him, her face pale. "They're all like this. Every house. It's like they just vanished."
Kaelen arrived moments later. "No signs of struggle. No blood. No prints. Just… gone."
Duncan's eyes narrowed. "No war does this."
"No," Alra agreed. "But gods might."
That night, they lit no fires.
The cold cut deep, but the dread ran deeper.
Duncan stood watch at the edge of the camp, staring out into the night. He could feel something moving just beyond sight — a presence that didn't creep or stalk, but simply watched. Patient. Waiting.
Alra approached, silent as snow.
"You know what the Arx showed us," she said quietly. "Those weren't just possibilities."
He nodded.
"They were invitations."
She drew closer. "You saw the crown. The throne. The blade."
He clenched his jaw. "I also saw ash. And blood."
"That crown was made from both."
Duncan turned to her, eyes fierce. "I will not become what they made."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Then you need to decide what you will become."
Before he could answer, a shriek tore through the sky.
Then another.
And another.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
From every direction.
He ran to the center of camp, drawing steel, already barking orders. "To arms! Form rings! Protect the wounded!"
From the snow, they emerged — twisted, pale-skinned beasts with no eyes and mouths full of spiraled teeth. They moved in jerks, their joints bending wrong, bones showing through their thin skin.
"Wraithborn," Kaelen growled, drawing his greatsword. "I thought they were extinct."
Duncan spat. "That's what they want us to think."
The battle that followed was madness — the Wraithborn didn't fight with tactics. They swarmed. Crawling over tents, screeching through shields, biting through flesh with impossible strength. Arrows only slowed them. Blades had to sever limbs or heads.
Duncan moved like a tempest.
Sword in one hand, short spear in the other, he cut a path through the horrors with brutal efficiency. Every slash was controlled. Every thrust was lethal.
But for each beast they felled, another took its place.
"They're endless!" Alra shouted from the rear flank, flames bursting from her palms as she burned five in a wave.
"They're feeding on fear!" she realized. "It empowers them!"
Duncan turned toward the center of the camp where the frightened, unarmed villagers huddled behind makeshift barriers. The Wraithborn were drawn to them like moths to flame.
"Kaelen!" Duncan shouted. "Hold the front! Alra, with me!"
He charged toward the villagers, using his body as a shield. Alra summoned barriers of flickering gold light, driving back the monsters. Duncan reached the children first — slashing two Wraithborn in half with a single arc, then planting his spear in the frozen ground.
"Stand!" he roared, voice like a hammer. "They want your fear — don't give it to them!"
A small girl whimpered, clutching her brother. Duncan knelt beside her and handed her his dagger. "You're braver than they are. Show them."
The girl nodded, wide-eyed but resolute.
The tide began to turn.
Not because the beasts weakened.
But because the people strengthened.
Hope sparked.
And where hope burned, the Wraithborn faltered.
By dawn, the last screech faded into the wind.
The battlefield was littered with corpses — of beasts and brave soldiers alike.
Duncan stood atop a broken wagon, surveying the aftermath. Blood on his armor. Fire in his eyes.
Kaelen limped toward him. "We lost thirty."
Duncan nodded. "And saved a hundred."
Alra joined them. "They came from the north. From the Maw."
Kaelen swore. "That's deep wild territory."
Duncan looked up at the dawn sky. "Then that's where we go."
Alra raised an eyebrow. "You want to enter the Maw?"
"They sent those creatures as a warning. That means they're afraid. That means we're close."
Kaelen sheathed his blade. "Close to what?"
Duncan stared into the rising sun.
"The truth. The real war. The one the Dominion's been hiding. The one beneath all of this."
He reached into his satchel and withdrew the black shard he had taken from the Obsidian Arx. It pulsed once in his hand — faintly, like a heartbeat.
A crown not yet forged.
A throne not yet claimed.
And the blood that would be required to reach it.
Duncan closed his fist around the shard.
"We march in three days."