The smoke had changed.
Vaelrik stood at the ridge's edge, the horizon smeared with grey. What had once been a distant signal now thickened into something tangible, heavier than fire or wind. The sky carried its weight like a burden, and even the earth beneath his boots felt tight, strained. It wasn't the wild smoke of forests burning. It was focused, rising from a single source that refused to be ignored.
He watched in silence.
Skarn prowled behind him, tail low, claws scraping furrows into the stone. The Iron Howler's restlessness was not fear. It was anticipation. Beside them, Forge knelt on the blackened earth, one hand pressed to the ground, chains flickering at his back.
"It burns still," Forge murmured. "Not from nature. Not from rage. It is bound flame."
Vaelrik didn't speak. His eyes never left the smoke.
Zephyrion circled high above, a blur of light in the dim sky, while Valgrin perched near the Hold's southern wall, wings folded tight, breath steady. The Embermaw Drake watched the horizon like a second sun waiting to rise.
Forge stood slowly. "The chains there... they call to me. A beast suffers in silence."
Vaelrik turned from the ridge. The decision was already made.
"We move."
---
They traveled through the lowlands as evening bled across the sky.
No birds. No wind. Only the steady crunch of ash beneath their boots and claws. The land was scarred, trees blackened and dead, their trunks twisted by heat and time. Whatever fire had taken this land, it had come long before, and now something burned it again.
The path grew narrow as they approached the outer forest, where the smoke thickened into veils that clung to the ground. The trees here were different. Not dead, not alive. They pulsed faintly, as though trying to breathe through the ash.
Vaelrik slowed his pace, hand brushing the hilt of Tempest Fang.
Forge halted beside him. "The chains here are old. Broken once. Reforged by hands that do not know the cost."
Vaelrik's gaze drifted to the forest ahead.
Fire flickered between the trees, low and controlled. Not wild. Not consuming.
"Someone keeps it burning," he said.
Skarn growled softly. Zephyrion circled above the treetops, wings silent. Valgrin stayed behind, holding the rear. The Embermaw's flame would betray their presence too soon.
Vaelrik stepped forward, cloak drawn tight, the Brand on his palm burning faintly.
They entered the forest.
---
The trees shifted around them, the path winding unnaturally. Vaelrik could feel it now—a subtle pull, like the land itself tried to mislead him. He didn't fight it. He followed.
Forge moved silently behind him, chains withdrawn, eyes scanning the twisted wood. Skarn stayed to the side, sniffing the air, tail twitching with every step.
Then they saw it.
A clearing, wide and scorched. In its center, a stake of blackened wood rose from the ground, chains wrapped around its base. And bound to it, slumped and motionless, was a beast.
It was not massive. Not hulking. It was rotted, twisted, its form part elk, part something older, stranger. Antlers of bone jutted from its head, their tips blackened and dripping with something that steamed. Its hide was torn, burned, yet beneath the wounds, a faint green glow pulsed.
Vaelrik stepped forward.
Forge whispered. "It is Mournroot. Beast of decay. Once free. Now... caged by fire."
The chains holding it were not like Forge's. They were crude, heavy, and glowing with heat. Around the clearing, torches burned, arranged in a circle. Symbols marked the ground, drawn in ash and blood.
Skarn growled low.
Vaelrik scanned the trees.
He was not alone.
---
Movement.
Figures emerged from the treeline. Armored in pieced-together mail, cloaks of dark leather, masks covering their faces. Each carried a chain wrapped around one arm, ends trailing with hooked blades.
At their center stood a man. Tall, gaunt, eyes hidden behind a visor of polished bone.
Vaelrik did not move.
The man stepped forward, spreading his arms.
"You are bold to come here," he said. His voice echoed with something off, a rasp beneath the words.
Vaelrik said nothing.
The man smiled.
"This beast is claimed. Bound by rite. It will serve the Bloodmarked."
Vaelrik took a step forward.
"You burn it," he said, voice quiet. "You bind it. That is not a crown."
The man's smile faded. "Crown? You play Sovereign. But all beasts must serve. Only the chains hold true."
Forge's chains stirred.
Vaelrik looked at Mournroot, still bound, eyes closed.
"It waits," he said. "You think it broken."
He drew the Brand.
"But I have come to crown it."
The clearing ignited with motion.
---
Skarn struck first, launching from the trees with a roar that shook the air. The Iron Howler crashed into the nearest Bloodmarked, claws rending through armor and flesh. Screams followed, but Vaelrik didn't stop to watch.
He surged forward, the Brand burning bright in his grip. Chains lashed at him, thrown by masked enemies, but he moved through them, Tempest Fang slicing clean through iron and bone.
Forge moved behind him, silent and swift. His chains snapped forward, seizing enemies by the throat and hurling them into the fire. Zephyrion soared overhead, lightning crackling from its wings, striking down those who tried to flee.
The gaunt man snarled, drawing a blade of dark steel.
"You will not take it," he hissed.
Vaelrik didn't slow. He reached Mournroot, chains slashing at him, biting into his cloak, his skin, but he didn't falter. The Brand met the beast's hide.
The world bent.
Light erupted from the Brand, searing through the chains, shattering them. The fire died instantly, snuffed out by a pulse of raw decay. The Bloodmarked screamed, stumbling back.
Mournroot rose.
Its eyes opened, twin orbs of pale green, glowing with quiet fury. The air grew thick, heavy. The trees withered further, ground cracking beneath the beast's hooves.
Vaelrik stepped back, raising the Brand.
"I free you. Now rise."
The Vaulting Gate burst open, the forest torn in two by its power. Chains of light forged themselves anew, not to bind, but to crown.
Mournroot stepped forward, the crown searing into its brow.
The Brand pulsed.
A new Edict formed.
Vaelrik watched it shape in his hand, a wreath of decay and life, swirling, alive.
Edict Gained: Blightroot Crown
Harness decay. Wither what is false. Let rot reveal the truth beneath.
The battle ended. The Bloodmarked fled, shattered. Vaelrik stood among ashes and ruin, Mournroot at his side, crowned, alive, and free.
And in the distance, other fires burned.
Not natural. Not wild.
The hunt was far from over.