The black flag of the Dominion flapped above a field of cracked stone and scorched grass. Rain drizzled through thick gray clouds, falling on lines of shivering young men. Some wore faded tunics, others the skins of hunted beasts. All held silence in their throats.
Duncan Vire stood among them, fists clenched.
Eighteen years. That was all the life the Dominion allowed before it came to claim its tax in blood.
His father's spear still rested in the family hearth, tip cracked, shaft split down the middle. His grandfather's armor—melted into slag after the Siege of Red Hollow—lay buried in a stone graveyard Duncan had never seen. Both had died under the same banner he now stood before.
A scarred officer paced before them. His cloak was soaked, but he walked with the confidence of a predator who had seen too much to be bothered by rain.
"You are the Fourth Conscript Corps of the Eastern Reach," he barked. "You are not soldiers. Not yet. You are meat the Dominion will mold into blade or ash."
Duncan swallowed the bitterness rising in his chest.
They had come in the night—gray-robed officials bearing writs sealed in black wax. His mother tried to plead, but the guards gave no answer. He had been taken on foot, marched from farmstead to stone outpost, then herded with dozens into a wheeled caravan. No goodbyes. No honor.
Only the draft.
"Raise your right hand," the officer snapped.
The men obeyed.
"You will now speak the oath."
A droning chant filled the cold air. Duncan mouthed the words with little conviction.
"By flesh and flame, by beast and blade,
I give my life to shield the Dominion's fate.
Let my blood bind the oath,
Let my bones be its stone."
When it ended, the officer stepped forward with a curved dagger. "Step forward, Vire."
Duncan blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, conscript. You bear legacy blood."
Murmurs rippled through the ranks. Legacy? Duncan didn't know what that meant. But he stepped forward anyway, jaw set.
The officer slit a thin line across his palm. The blood that dripped was deep crimson, nearly black.
A few soldiers near the back whispered.
The officer stared hard at Duncan's bleeding hand. "You'll be assigned to Squad Theta-Seven. Frontier bound."
"But—I'm just a farmer's son."
"No farmer's son bleeds like this," the officer said. "Your lineage has been marked since your grandfather's last campaign. Welcome to the war, Vire."
Barracks of Camp Ironroot
The barracks stank of leather, smoke, and old sweat. Rows of cots lined the stone interior, half filled with already sleeping or sharpening conscripts. A few wore pieces of mismatched armor—leftovers from older units. One polished a long-handled beast-hunting spear with notches etched down the shaft.
Duncan claimed a corner bunk.
Across from him, a broad-shouldered man with pale eyes watched him.
"Legacy blood, huh?" the man said.
"That's what they said."
"You don't look like much."
"I'm not."
The man grinned, then leaned back. "Good. Means you might live longer. The proud ones die quick."
Duncan closed his eyes, but his thoughts burned.
He had never killed anything bigger than a hawk.
And tomorrow, they would hand him a sword and send him to beastland borders, where the Dominion's rule ended—and wild creatures ruled unchallenged.
Outside the Camp
That night, as thunder rolled and camp torches flickered, Duncan stepped outside and stared at the ridgeline beyond the walls.
There, on the far horizon, a pair of burning amber eyes blinked through the dark.
A shape—massive, low to the ground, breathing mist that made the trees curl.
A beast.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if it knew he was coming.