The eastern frontier smelled of burnt stone and broken oaths.
Duncan rode alone.
He had left Fort Thorne under the cover of dawn, Emberblade at his back, the black sigil scrap tucked inside his cloak. The trail east was thin and half-erased—old trade paths swallowed by time and frostbite trees. The further he rode, the more the world seemed to unravel around him.
The forests became silent.
The birds stopped singing.
Even the beasts, the wild ones that once stalked the thickets and glades, had disappeared.
Something had emptied this land long before he arrived.
And something darker had replaced it.
Ruins of the Watch
On the third day, he found the remains of the Hollow Watch Tower, one of the last forward stations meant to signal between Dominion outposts.
It was now nothing but a scorched stump.
The outer walls had melted, not burned. Great gashes had been carved through stone by some unnatural claw. The sentries—those who hadn't fled—were frozen where they stood, their armor intact, their flesh turned to brittle ash.
And on the walls, someone had scrawled a warning in old tongue, traced in black ichor:
"It hears. It watches. It waits beneath."
Duncan touched the symbols.
They pulsed beneath his fingers—alive.
Into the Vale of Silence
The path twisted into the Vale of Silence—a canyon of jagged rock and thorned vines that led into the deadlands.
It had once been rich with life. But now, even the wind avoided the place. The trees stood like petrified bones. Pools of blackened water reflected nothing.
It was there Duncan saw the first of the broken.
A dominion banner, still fluttering from a snapped pole.
And beneath it, what remained of the Sanctum's guards—entire units sprawled in circles, weapons drawn, untouched by beasts or blade.
They had not fought.
They had witnessed something.
And it had hollowed them from the inside.
Sanctum Breach
When Duncan reached the cliffs that once guarded the Black Sanctum, he knew something ancient had awakened.
The gates were gone—melted into slag.
The towers were toppled, as if pressed down by a colossal hand.
And at the heart of the ruins, surrounded by scorched corpses and shattered relics, was a single spiral-shaped crater, glowing faintly red.
Duncan stepped to its edge.
The walls weren't natural. They bore the marks of tunneling—but not by anything of flesh or steel. Symbols lined the rim, burned into stone in concentric spirals that shimmered with spectral light.
He knelt, brushing aside the dust.
And beneath it, a rune.
"First Eye: Unsealed."
Duncan's heart clenched.
The Bonepath had been the mouth.
The Sanctum… was the eye.
And it was open.
Voices in the Crater
Suddenly, the wind shifted.
And from the crater's depths, a voice rose—not spoken aloud, but whispered into the marrow of Duncan's bones.
"Bearer of flame… you walk roads not meant for mortals."
Duncan staggered, the Emberblade flaring on instinct.
"You kindle light in places we sealed for a reason."
He stood, staring into the abyss. Shadows churned within it—tall, humanoid, yet wrong. Limbs stretched too far. Heads wreathed in antlers made of iron. Not Hollowed. Not beast.
Something in between.
"You are not yet bound. Turn back. Or burn everything you protect."
"I didn't come for peace," Duncan said aloud. "I came for answers."
"Then take this one…"
A gust of wind surged up from the crater, slamming into him. Duncan gritted his teeth as the sigil in his cloak burned white-hot.
"You were never the first."
Then silence.
The Forgotten Tomb
Behind the crater, hidden beneath collapsed stone, Duncan found the true Sanctum core.
It was a library—small, sealed, buried deep. Inside were scrolls sealed in wax, pages of bestial scripture, and a mural painted in dried resin.
It showed a man.
Wreathed in fire, wielding a flaming sword.
At his feet were a dozen broken beasts—some familiar, others monstrous.
Above him: a crown of iron.
Below him: a spiral of bone.
And written beside it, in language both ancient and too modern:
"One Flame for One World. One Error, Never Again."
The Second Buried Truth
Duncan sat in the dust, staring at the mural.
He realized then: the Emberblade was not a gift.
It was a lock.
A key forged not to grant power—but to keep something sealed.
He stood, heart pounding, and turned to leave—only to find the wind howling again.
And in the distance, atop a ridge, stood a figure in bone-plate armor, crowned with twisted antlers.
It did not move.
It did not breathe.
But its eyes burned blue.
And Duncan knew:
The old kings were waking.