Duncan emerged from the depths of Alderdeep with more than dust on his armor and cold in his bones.
In his left hand, he clutched the iron antlered crown—its weight disproportionate to its size, as though it carried not just metal, but memory. In his right, he carried Ashborn, its pale blade humming faintly, disturbed by the ancient magic now bound to him.
His eyes had changed.
Kael noticed it first. The commander's irises had darkened around the edges, threaded with crimson veins barely visible in the morning light. Not bloodlust—something older. Wiser. Wilder.
"What happened down there?" Kael asked as Duncan emerged into the courtyard.
Duncan didn't answer immediately. He let his gaze sweep over his waiting soldiers. Tired, scarred, uncertain—but still with him. Still loyal.
He turned to Kael and spoke low.
"I saw a war that hasn't happened yet. I saw a version of myself standing at the heart of it."
Kael stiffened. "A vision?"
"A prophecy. Maybe a warning."
He held up the crown. The bones were not human. The iron had teeth.
"This belonged to the First Sovereign of the Wild Marches. Before the Dominion even existed. Before we drew lines on maps and called them kingdoms."
Kael stared. "And it called to you?"
"No. It remembered me."
A ripple of unease moved through the ranks. The air grew still again as the soldiers quietly watched their commander wrestle with forces far beyond the scope of their blades and lances.
"Then what now?" Kael asked. "You've got a crown and a death vision. Do we march back west?"
Duncan looked beyond the ruins, where hills rolled like the backs of sleeping beasts. The wind carried faint calls—animal, not human. Distant. But coming closer.
"No," Duncan said. "Now we wake what the Dominion buried. We find the others like me—the ones the crown remembers."
He didn't say "kings." He didn't need to.
Two days later, the Bannerless marched east.
They no longer wore unit tags. No shoulder crests. Duncan had made the order to burn every Dominion-standard garment. Those who still clung to old loyalties were given the choice: stay or go. Fewer than a dozen left.
The rest followed without question.
They passed through ravaged villages overgrown with thornfruit and bloodfern—wild plants that only bloomed where mystical beasts had bled into the land. Strange footprints marked the roads: claws the size of war picks, padded paws with runic burns, hooves fused with bone-metal. This wasn't just beast country. It was evolving.
As they neared the Ebonrise Woods, a scout returned, bloodied and pale.
"We've got movement, Commander. Fast. Not Dominion patrols."
"Beasts?" Duncan asked.
The scout shook his head. "Something… between. Armor like ours, but older. Their commander rides a six-legged elk with crimson antlers. They're not attacking—but they knew we were coming. They're waiting."
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "Form ranks. I'll go first."
The clearing stank of ironbark sap and old bones. Moss-covered statues loomed from the fog, their faces eroded to blank masks.
And there they were.
A company of fifty warriors clad in ancient plate—etched not with sigils, but claw marks and sunbursts. Their helms bore antler crests. And at their front sat a figure on a beast unlike any Duncan had seen before.
A war-elk. Crimson antlers. Glowing eyes. Scars across its flanks.
And its rider—
A woman. Dark hair in braids, skin inked with spirals like the one Duncan had seen in the shrine. She wore no crown. But her gaze was pure command.
"You carry the First Crown," she said without preamble.
Duncan stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I am Alra of the Broken Antler. Third-born of the Wakened. I speak for the Blood Oath. And you, Dominion-son, are late."
Duncan held the crown in one hand. "I don't remember making any oaths."
She smiled—not kindly. "You made them long before you were born."
Her warriors didn't raise weapons. They waited, quiet as trees. The elk snorted but held still.
"What is the Blood Oath?" Duncan asked.
"The pact of the First Kings. Not to rule men. To protect the balance. Before cities. Before steel. When beasts still spoke."
Duncan took a slow breath. "That world is gone."
"No," Alra said. "That world is waking up. You felt it. You saw it. The Spiral Fire. The visions. The beasts changing. The Dominion's walls can't hold what's coming."
Duncan looked her in the eye. "Then why me?"
"Because you wear the crown," she said simply. "Because it chose you. And because you're the last one left who can hold it without breaking."
He glanced down at the bone-forged thing. "I'm not ready."
"No one is," she said. "But we don't have time."
Behind her, the trees groaned. A rumble built in the ground—soft at first, then unmistakable.
The beasts were coming.
Wild ones. Not summoned. Not enslaved.
But marching.
Alra turned her elk and rode closer.
"Put the crown on, Duncan Voss. And see what the Dominion doesn't want you to know."
The ground cracked. A roar echoed from the forest beyond—ancient and angry.
And Duncan—tired, unwilling, but no longer blind—raised the crown toward his brow.
He hesitated once.
Then lowered it.
And the world changed.