A sound like a thunderous heartbeat echoed through the crucible chamber. Dust trickled down from the ancient ceiling as the obelisk's core rotated inward, folding in on itself in a complex pattern of glowing plates and shifting runes. From the depths of the forge chamber, a massive stone disk rose slowly from the ground, accompanied by the low hum of awakening machinery.
No one spoke.
The tension was palpable, like standing on the edge of a cliff and waiting for the ground to crumble beneath your feet.
Duncan stood closest to the opening. The brand on his chest pulsed like it was responding to something—calling or being called. The floating square panel that had emerged earlier hovered beside him, glowing with a soft amber light, tethered now to his will.
Ashryn steadied herself against a column, her thigh still bleeding from the battle. "You're sure about this?"
"No," Duncan replied, his voice steady. "But we didn't fight through two kill squads and a pair of Spirebringers just to turn back now."
The stone disk stopped with a heavy thud, revealing a circular stairway descending into pitch-black void. Heat wafted upward—not fire, but an old, strange warmth. It smelled of metal, oil, and something… older. Something like time.
Gorran muttered under his breath. "This wasn't built. It was sealed. Long ago. Before the Fall."
Duncan stepped forward, weapon still in hand. With a glance at the others, he descended into the dark.
The stairwell spiraled downward for over two minutes. The further they went, the heavier the air became—not oppressive, but charged, like every breath carried weight. Strange inscriptions lined the walls, similar to those on the Sentinels, but older, less refined—etched by hand, not by machine.
When they reached the bottom, the corridor widened into a grand antechamber—circular, with three arched doors spaced evenly around it. At the center sat a pedestal shaped like a jagged crystal, and on top of it hovered a metal sphere, silently spinning, emitting faint pulses of blue light.
"What is that?" Alra whispered, finally breaking the silence.
Gorran's eyes widened. "That's a Dominion Core. A pure one. Untethered, active, and unbroken."
Ashryn's hand went to her weapon instinctively. "How the hell is something like that still intact?"
"Because it was meant to outlast the Dominion itself," Gorran replied. "That's not a weapon. It's a key."
Duncan stepped forward again. As he approached the core, the sphere stopped spinning and the pulses quickened. The floating panel beside him flashed once and then vanished into a thin line of light, absorbed by the pedestal.
The room trembled.
Then a voice—not the obelisk's, not mechanical, but human, deep and resonant—spoke.
"Echo Rhys. Protocol alignment confirmed. Authority restored. Initiating Dominion Protocol."
A pulse of golden light surged from the pedestal and filled the room. The arched doors shuddered and slowly began to open, revealing what lay beyond each of them.
Behind the first: a vault filled with relics—artifacts of war, maps of battlefields, and tablets etched with forgotten commands. A war room, preserved in perfect stasis.
Behind the second: a chamber of command thrones—twelve, arranged in a circle. Each one was connected by cables to a central hub, designed to sync with high-rank Dominion officers, allowing them to coordinate legions across continents.
Behind the third: a glass cylinder nearly three meters tall. Inside floated a humanoid figure in ancient armor—its body held together by crystalline filaments and pulsating light. Not dead. Not alive.
Dormant.
Gorran's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's… a Dominion Precursor."
Ashryn blinked. "A what?"
"One of the origin soldiers. The first tier of engineered warriors from the Age of the Twelve Wills. I thought they were all wiped out in the Severing Wars."
"Apparently not," Duncan said. "This place isn't just a forge. It's a command sanctum. A resurrection site for the Dominion's return."
And it had chosen him.
The core lifted slightly from the pedestal and extended three prongs downward, forming a socket—perfectly shaped to match the brand on Duncan's chest.
"Insert," the voice instructed.
Ashryn stepped forward. "Duncan, hold on—if that connects to your brand, it might bind you permanently. Or worse."
"I know," Duncan said. "But the Path is escalating. They wouldn't come down here with Spirebringers unless they were scared of what I'd find."
He reached out and touched the core.
Pain lanced through him like molten steel. The brand flared as the core latched into his body—no blood, no tearing, just melding. A click, a snap of reality—and suddenly, he saw.
Not with eyes, but with memory.
Visions unfolded—entire battle campaigns fought on floating cities, beast legions controlled with thought, Dominion airships descending like gods upon wild continents. He saw Rhys—his Echo identity—standing atop the citadel of Ar'Daran, giving the final order that ended the Siege of Nine Kings.
He wasn't just inheriting power.
He was inheriting an unfinished war.
Duncan staggered back as the core disengaged and floated into the air again. It dimmed slightly, now linked to him.
The Precursor inside the third chamber stirred. Its eyes flickered with faint light, and the tubes around it began to hiss and retract.
"I've activated it," Duncan said quietly.
"No," said Gorran, voice shaking. "You've awakened it."
Outside, from above, a new sound rang out—low horns, echoing in the caverns above. Not Path war-horns.
Beast horns.
Wild and ancient.
Ashryn turned pale. "That's not possible. There's no way they could have breached the wards."
Duncan didn't look away from the Precursor chamber.
"They didn't breach," he said. "They were invited."
The Dominion Protocol had been initiated.
And Ironwild was waking up.