Three days after the Wraithborn siege, the Ironwild Legion stood at the threshold of the Maw.
It wasn't a place found on old maps or mentioned in books. The Maw was a myth to most — a cursed region in the far north, where winter was said to breathe, and the land itself devoured memories. But Duncan knew now that myths in this world were warnings, not fictions.
The Maw yawned before them like a great black chasm, flanked by jagged ridges and gnarled, frostbitten trees. Mist clung to the earth like a living thing, and the wind carried with it the faintest of voices — whispers that never rose above a murmur, but which scraped the inside of the skull like dull claws.
The scouts had already reported back. No sign of civilization. No beasts of burden. But bones — lots of them. Half-buried in snow. Some human. Some definitely not.
Duncan stood at the front of the column, his armor polished but scarred, the gleam of his short spear muted in the dull light. Around him, the officers waited for his command.
"We ride into silence," he said. "Into what the world abandoned. We don't know what lies beyond, only that it fears us enough to send monsters to stop us."
Kaelen snorted beside him. "That fear better be justified, or I'm turning around."
Alra smiled faintly at that, but her eyes were tight with tension. "The magic here is… old. Stale and desperate. It's clinging to bones and grief."
Duncan didn't respond. He simply raised a hand.
"Forward."
The Ironwild Legion moved like a silver serpent through the gloom, ballistae creaking behind them, carts heavy with supplies and wounded. Archers kept their bows ready, and the beastwatch squads moved in constant rotation along the flanks. There would be no rest here.
Hours passed.
Snow began to fall, not in flurries but in vertical lines — too straight to be natural. The air grew colder with every step. The trees grew stranger — their bark the color of dried blood, their branches arching as if shielding the path from the sky.
By midday, they reached the first monument.
A pillar of dark stone, as tall as a man, rising from the ice. Carvings circled it — runes Duncan didn't recognize but felt stir something deep in his bones. A low vibration.
Alra dismounted and approached it slowly, fingers glowing faintly as she traced a few lines.
"It's not just a monument," she murmured. "It's a lock."
Duncan stepped beside her. "On what?"
She looked up at him. "Something that was meant never to wake."
Kaelen grunted. "Too late for that. We already shook its cradle."
Duncan said nothing. But he marked the rune in his memory.
They passed six more of those stones by the time dusk fell. Each colder than the last. Each vibrating stronger the closer they got to the heart of the Maw.
That night, the camp was quiet. No fire was allowed. Only the dull glow of mage lanterns offered reprieve from the dark.
Duncan sat alone near the edge of camp, gazing at the black shard he carried — the same one from the Arx. It had grown warmer in his hand as they traveled north. It pulsed faintly now, like a second heartbeat synced to his own.
"What are you really?" he whispered to it.
No answer. Just a thrum, like a whisper waiting to be heard.
Alra joined him, kneeling beside the lantern.
"You're changing," she said.
Duncan's eyes didn't move. "Because I have to."
"No. Not like that. You're not growing — you're splitting."
He turned toward her. "What does that mean?"
"You're Duncan," she said softly, "but you're also something else now. Something ancient. Something that wants to reclaim what was taken from it. And I'm not sure it's going to let you choose who wins."
Duncan didn't flinch. "Then I'll beat both."
She gave a sad smile. "You're always so certain. That's what terrifies me."
Before he could answer, a horn blared from the western watch.
A scout.
Then another.
Then a scream.
Duncan shot to his feet, blade in hand, racing toward the cry.
The perimeter had been breached.
But not by Wraithborn.
These were worse.
Creatures cloaked in obsidian chitin, taller than men, with glowing symbols carved into their skulls. Their eyes were hollow. Their mouths didn't open — but from them came the sound of grinding stone and breaking teeth.
Kaelen was already fighting one, his sword barely denting its carapace.
Alra hurled a bolt of fire — it fizzled before touching the beast.
"Magic's dead here!" she shouted.
Duncan launched forward, spear whistling through the air. He struck the creature's side — the tip scraped but didn't pierce. It turned toward him with eerie grace, one limb extending into a curved blade.
The duel was brutal.
Duncan dodged a swing, rolled, and came up behind it, plunging the short sword between the plates in its back. The creature shrieked, stumbled, then exploded into a cloud of dust.
They weren't alive.
They were constructs.
"Weak at the joints!" Duncan called. "Don't fight their armor — break their form!"
The legion rallied.
Dozens fell — but hundreds stood.
Precision won the night.
When the last beast fell, the field was soaked in steam and blood.
Duncan stood in the ruins, chest heaving. He looked down at his spear. The black shard had begun to crackle faintly with energy — faint tendrils of shadow trailing from its core.
Alra stared at it, horrified. "It's feeding. That thing is waking up. And it's tied to you."
Duncan clenched his jaw. "Then I'll rip it from the roots."
Kaelen limped toward them. "That wasn't a warning. That was a test."
He was right.
Whatever controlled the Maw had just measured them.
And found them… interesting.
Duncan stared into the black woods beyond the clearing.
The path ahead was narrowing. Destiny wasn't waiting.
It was coming.
He turned to his legion, bloodied but unbowed.
"Rest. Then move. We enter the core tomorrow. No more caution. No more running. This thing wants to know who I am?"
He raised the shard to the sky.
"Then it better be ready."