The public execution of Ser Landon sent a chilling wind through the ranks of the knights across all ten kingdoms. In the city of Runest in Frosthold's, Captain Rykard in the main hall stood before his men, the parchment crackling in his grip.
"Let there be no ambiguity," Rykard's voice cut through the silence, his gaze a physical weight on each man. "Ser Landon of Sylvarath. Convicted of treason for surrendering a marked child to the wild. The sentence was carried out by beheading." He lowered the report, his eyes sweeping over them. "Compassion for the marked is collaboration with the enemy. It is a cancer that weakens the shield. And we cut out cancers."
Ser Evander stood perfectly still in the front rank, his face a mask of stone. But inside, a quiet voice screamed. 'Landon… you fool. You brave, noble fool. They killed you for a moment of humanity.' He felt a part of his soul wither and die, sealing away the last of his doubts behind a wall of cold, hard necessity. The Order was no longer a shield, it was a slaver's chain, and he had just felt the lock click shut around his own wrists.
The work did not stop. The next wave of marked births came just two moons later. In a cramped stone house in a Valrathian border town, a knight kicked down the door.
"There is no child here!" the father yelled, standing before the hearth, his arms spread wide.
The knight, his helmet muffling his voice into a grim monotone, "we know your wife was pregnant, so be reasonable and move away." The knight pointed to the faint, amber glow emanating from a hidden compartment under the floor. "The eyes always give them away. Hand it over."
"Please, she's just a babe!" the mother sobbed, clutching the knight's vambrace.
He shook her off without a word. This time, the knights were even more efficient, and even more brutal. The horror had become routine.
In the Bastion of Artheris, where stargazers once sought wisdom from the heavens, two acolytes now pored over a chart.
"The celestial alignment suggests the next birth-wave will coincide with the lunar perigee in three cycles," one said, his voice clinical.
"Inform the Kingsguard," the other replied, rolling up the parchment. "They will want to prepare for the purge." The stars were no longer guides, but a timetable for infanticide.
In Valrathia, the kingdom of roses and thorns, the beautiful nobles had turned the hunt into a profitable enterprise. At a lavish soiree, a Baroness sipped her wine and remarked to a knight-captain, "Twenty-Five gold crowns for a silver-eye, was it? A small price to pay for the security of the realm. My husband has even started a betting pool on how many will be caught in the first week." She smiled, a cold, sharp thing. "It adds a bit of sport to the unpleasantness."
Meanwhile, the adventurer guilds were learning hard lessons. In a smoke-filled guild hall in Ashenvale, the leader of the "Ember Wolves," a grizzled veteran named Borik, slammed his fist on the table.
The theory that the four days between monster waves were "free" was not just an academic notion, it was a challenge. And for Borin, leader of the Ember Wolves, it was a challenge he was born to answer.
Borin was a sentinel of the roads, a man carved from oak and grit. In his early thirties, he had the rugged, grounded presence of someone who trusted the earth beneath his feet more than the promises of kings or mages. Shoulder-length dark hair, streaked faintly with early grey, fell around a face marked by a trimmed but rough beard. His eyes, a sharp and steady grey, held the quiet intensity of a man who had seen countless dangers and learned to read the silence between the sounds. He was the rock upon which the Ember Wolves were built.
His armor was a testament to his journey, a practical mixture of worn steel plates over durable leather, each scratch and dent a map of past battles. A faded blue cloak, stained by countless campfires and harsh weather, was clasped at his shoulder. At his hip hung a long, unadorned sword, its hilt worn smooth by his grip, and on his arm, a round, polished shield reflected the firelight of the guild hall. Surrounding him, always, were the essentials of his life, a large satchel for supplies, a bedroll for restless nights, a rope for impossible climbs, and a water flask that had tasted the waters of a hundred different streams. He was a man prepared for anything.
His team, the Ember Wolves, mirrored his practicality and ferocity. They were not a large guild, but they were a tight-knit pack.
Voss: The Vanguard. A mountain of a man in heavy plate armor, he was Borin's unshakable shield. He spoke little, but his laughter, when it came, was a booming sound that could shake dust from the rafters.
Ivy: The Spell-Singer. Young, sharp, and fiercely intelligent, she was their tracker and their source of arcane fire. She saw the world in patterns and energies, and was the first to voice the doubts others wouldn't.
Finn: The Scout. Agile and perceptive, with eyes that missed nothing. He was their eyes and ears, a master of moving unseen and setting traps.
Mara: The Heartwarden. Their healer, her hands could mend bone and soothe fever. She carried not just poultices and bandages, but the emotional weight of the pack, her calm presence a balm to their frayed nerves.
The night before their fateful decision, the guild hall was thick with tension and smoke.
"The Ashen Fissure," Borin declared, his voice a low rumble as he planted a calloused finger on the map. "We go in on the third day. We hit its heart while it's supposed to be 'quiet'."
A silence fell. It was Ivy who broke it, her voice cutting through the haze. "Borin, the scouts' reports are... inconsistent. The sounds from the fissure on the so-called quiet days aren't of silence. They're different. A low hum. A feeling of... pressure. As if it's digesting."
"Digesting what?" Finn asked, sharpening a dagger with a rhythmic shink, shink, shink.
"Us," Ivy said simply. "The fallen. The energy of the battles. We don't know what it is. This isn't a hunt, Borin. It's a dissection of the unknown."
Borin shook his head, a flicker of impatience in his steady gaze. "We've been reactive for too long, Ivy! We guard walls. We chase down strays. We are becoming shepherds for frightened sheep. The Ember Wolves were forged in fire, not fear." He looked at each of them. "The mages in their towers call this a 'purge'. They hunt babies in their cradles. That is not strength. This" he tapped the map again, " this is strength. Taking the fight to the enemy. Proving these dungeons can be beaten."
Voss grunted, hefting his massive shield. "The boss is right. I did not join this pack to grow old guarding grain shipments. My shield is for breaking charges, not for hiding behind."
"But what if Ivy's right?" Mara interjected softly, her hands nervously folding a clean bandage. "What if we're not walking into a dormant lair, but a stomach?"
"Then we cut our way out," Borin said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We are thirty strong. We are prepared. We are the Ember Wolves. We do not cower from whispers and bad feelings." He looked at Ivy, his expression softening a fraction. "Your fire has saved us more times than I can count, Ivy. I need it now. I need you to see a way through, not just the reasons to turn back."
Ivy held his gaze for a long moment, the logic of the scholar at war with her loyalty to the pack. Finally, she let out a slow breath. "I'll prepare the warding charms. But we set a time limit. If we haven't reached the core by the end of the third day, we pull back. No arguments."
Borin gave a single, firm nod. "Agreed."
The next morning, as they assembled at the edge of the Ashen Fissure, the air was cold and still. The fissure itself was a jagged scar in the earth, exhaling a faint, warm, metallic-smelling breath.
"Final check," Borin commanded, his voice calm and solid.
"Shields are ready," Voss rumbled, settling his great helm into place.
"Wards are active. I'll be listening to the mana flows," Ivy said, her fingers tracing glowing patterns in the air.
"Traps are set at the entrance, in case we need a quick exit," Finn reported, adjusting the straps on his pack.
"Mending kits are full. God's willing, we won't need them all," Mara whispered, offering a small, brave smile.
Borin looked over his pack, his family. He saw the determination in Voss's stance, the focused intelligence in Ivy's eyes, the ready energy in Finn's posture, and the unwavering compassion in Mara's. He felt the weight of his own sword, the familiar grip of his shield. He was a sentinel, and his duty was to clear the path.
He turned to face the dark, gaping maw of the dungeon.
"The Wolves hunt today," he said, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "For glory. For answers. For a future that isn't built on fear. Let's move out."
With Borin and Voss at the front, a wall of steel and resolve, and Ivy's soft glow illuminating the path, the thirty-strong pack of the Ember Wolves descended into the Dungeon of Despair. They walked with confidence, their boots scuffing on the strange, porous rock, their chatter dying away as the darkness swallowed them whole.
The lone scout, Anya, watched from a hidden vantage point, as was her duty. She saw the last of them disappear. She saw the entrance, silent and waiting. And she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning cold, a premonition that the fissure wasn't a place to be conquered, but a living thing that had just been fed.