The horns reverberated like thunder through the stone-buried forge sanctum, shaking the air with primal dread. Duncan spun toward the stairwell behind them, but even before his ears registered the cadence, his instincts already screamed the answer:
Beasts.
And not ordinary ones.
These were ancient, wild-born, and angry.
Ashryn gritted her teeth, fingers curling around her bow. "Those aren't war horns. That's a howl. A call to hunt."
From within the glass containment, the Precursor's body twitched—its crystalline armor shimmering as arcane glyphs ignited along its form. Tubes snapped free and hissed out steam. The figure opened its eyes—twin orbs of crackling azure—and stepped forward. Its feet met the metal floor with a deliberate grace, like the weight of centuries carried in each movement.
Duncan stood still, the Dominion Core floating beside him, its blue light now dimmed. The connection was made. He didn't understand how, but some deeper awareness had awakened inside him. Rhys—his Echo identity—was more than a name. It was a legacy. And now, that legacy carried a burden.
"Designation recognized," the Precursor spoke at last, its voice deep and metallic, laced with both reverence and command. "High Marshal Rhys. Orders?"
Everyone looked to Duncan.
"I'm not Rhys," he muttered, half to himself.
"You are now," Gorran said grimly. "And whatever you're about to command, you'd better do it fast."
Another howl echoed—closer this time. The beasts were descending into the sanctum. Somehow, the ancient wards were either overridden or deactivated.
"We need to get back to the surface," Ashryn said. "If wild beasts have entered the old forgeways, the outposts above are already overrun."
"No," Duncan said, his voice sharpening. "This is what they wanted. The Path—hell, maybe even the Warpriests—they didn't just come to stop me from finding the forge. They wanted to bait the wilds here. Lead them into the heart of the Dominion's remains and make sure they tore it all down."
Gorran's face darkened. "So what are you going to do?"
Duncan turned to the Precursor. "You said I have command?"
The ancient warrior nodded once. "The Protocol binds your voice. This sanctum—and its guardians—are yours."
Duncan raised his hand, the Dominion Core still tethered to his aura. "Then awaken every Sentinel left in this forge. I want them armed, active, and positioned across every known entry tunnel."
"Confirmed," the Precursor responded. Its chest lit with white runes, and distant rumbling echoed through the chambers above.
From the vaults behind them, long-dormant Sentinels—eight-foot armored constructs of war, etched with Dominion sigils—awakened from their cradles. Their eyes lit with the same blue fire, and each took up ancient weapons—arcane glaives, repeating crossbows, and thunder-lances.
The stone chamber vibrated as their footsteps synchronized like a low drumbeat of coming war.
"Gorran," Duncan said. "You know these tunnels better than anyone. I want you to lead a secondary defense line two levels up. Position kill zones. Fallback routes. And make sure if anything makes it past the Sentinels, it bleeds for it."
Gorran gave a curt nod. "Done."
"Ashryn, you're with me. We hold this room. Whatever is behind those howls—they're coming for me."
She smiled grimly. "About time I got to shoot something important again."
As the others moved to their posts, Duncan stepped toward the war room door—the first vault. Inside, he could feel something calling to him. Not just memories. Strategy.
The room glowed with soft golden light. Maps hovered in midair—preserved Dominion intelligence from over two hundred years ago. A nearby pedestal responded to his presence, rotating until it revealed a glowing schematic: the layout of the Ironwild region, with nodes representing old Dominion fortresses.
But one node flashed red.
"Site 09-Blackspire," he whispered. "Still active."
Behind him, the Precursor approached.
"The last bastion," it said. "Blackspire holds the Dominion's final command beacon. If it is still intact, the Dominion Protocol can be expanded—reaching slumbering assets across the continent."
"And if it's fallen?"
"Then your war ends before it begins."
Duncan looked at the map again. Blackspire was weeks away on foot. And Ironwild's wild zones between here and there were no-man's-lands—overrun by beast packs, storms, and collapse zones.
He would need an army to cross it.
Or... a beast.
He looked again to the open vaults. No signs of the chained engine beasts used in the old Dominion days.
Then again, Duncan had never needed chains.
He closed his eyes.
The core pulsed at his chest, and the ancient imprint of Rhys stirred in his bones—not just tactics, not just command... but communion. With wild things. Not tamed. Not summoned.
Respected.
Outside, another howl shattered the stillness—closer than ever now. Then a second. A third.
Footsteps thundered above.
The battle had come to the forge.
Duncan opened his eyes.
"Activate all vault defenses. Lock the war room. And hold the line."
The Precursor straightened, then raised one hand—and across the sanctum, glyph-lined doors sealed shut, and the Sentinels marched into position.
Ashryn stood beside him now, her bow notched and her eyes shining.
"Whatever happens, we hold," she said.
Duncan nodded.
"No," he replied. "We don't just hold. We begin."