The earth did not stop bleeding.
Vaelrik stood at the edge of the scorched clearing where Mournroot had been chained. The beast now moved freely behind him, its hooves sinking into the blackened soil, every step leaving behind twisted vines and thorny roots. The ground pulsed, veins of decay spreading outward, consuming ash and fire alike.
Where once flame had ruled, now rot reclaimed.
Forge knelt beside a broken chain left by the Bloodmarked, fingers running across the metal links. He frowned.
"These were not meant to hold it long. They wanted it to break. To twist."
Vaelrik did not answer. His eyes scanned the forest beyond, watching as trees shriveled and cracked. Mournroot's presence shifted the land, not in destruction, but in reclamation. The beast moved slowly, antlers brushing against the dead trees, leaving trails of withering bark in its wake.
Skarn paced nearby, uneasy. Zephyrion circled overhead, vigilant. Valgrin remained at the treeline, wary of the spreading decay. None of them approached too closely.
Vaelrik stepped into the heart of the clearing, his boots sinking into soft soil that had turned from ash to something darker, richer, and alive with thorns. He crouched, touching the ground. It pulsed beneath his fingers, and he could feel it... the land remembering itself.
Mournroot turned, its pale green eyes meeting Vaelrik's. It did not speak. It did not need to. The Brand on Vaelrik's palm flared, and through it, he felt what the beast felt.
The land was sick.
More chains.
More beasts.
He rose and walked toward the edge of the clearing. Skarn followed, silent, tense. Forge joined them a moment later, eyes scanning the trees.
"Forge, how many?"
The chain beast rose, eyes narrowing.
"Four. No... five near. Dozens further. Some... ancient. Some barely awake."
Vaelrik nodded slowly.
"And the bindings?"
Forge shook his head. "Fractured. Improvised. Not Sovereign work. Someone else is binding them. Someone who does not understand them."
Skarn growled low.
Vaelrik's voice was calm. "They're not hidden. They're bound. Held by those who fear them."
Forge nodded. "And the bindings are weakening. The land cannot hold them all."
Vaelrik looked down at the cracked earth beneath his boots. Mournroot's rot crept around him, not consuming, but revealing. Beneath the ash and blood... life pulsed. Thorns sprouted from the soil, curling gently around his feet.
"They feared what we would find."
He turned toward the horizon.
Smoke rose again. Not just one plume, but several. Thin, controlled.
Marks of capture.
Mournroot stamped the earth once. Thorns burst from the ground in all directions, curling, weaving, leaving behind a crown of twisted vines.
Forge stepped beside Vaelrik. "This was never about ruling. It was about silencing. Chains, thrones... distractions."
Vaelrik clenched his fist. The Brand burned hotter.
"Then we wake them all."
He glanced at the beasts around him. Skarn's eyes gleamed. Valgrin spread its wings, flame flickering. Zephyrion shrieked once, wind stirring the ashes.
Mournroot lowered its head, the crown of thorns glowing.
Vaelrik raised his hand, the Brand blazing.
"Every chain will break. Every crown will rise."
The hunt had only begun.
---
Night fell slowly over the dead lands.
They camped beneath the hollow remains of a fallen tree, its bark long since stripped by fire. The beasts kept watch, their eyes glowing faint in the dark, while Vaelrik sat alone, sharpening Tempest Fang. The storm blade hummed softly, the sound like distant thunder.
Forge crouched nearby, head bowed, chains slack at his sides.
"There is one close," Forge said. "Bound with iron not of this world. New. Brutal."
Vaelrik glanced up. "Not Sovereigns?"
Forge shook his head. "Worse. A faction that does not crown. Only consumes."
Vaelrik frowned, his grip tightening on the blade. "Where?"
Forge pointed east. "A fortress hidden beneath the old hills. They keep the beast there. Enslaved. Used. Its power drained."
Vaelrik stood slowly, gaze rising to the distant hills outlined by faint firelight.
Skarn approached, sensing the shift in mood. Valgrin joined him, eyes sharp. Zephyrion remained above, wings outstretched, waiting.
"What kind of beast?" Vaelrik asked.
Forge hesitated. "Not like the others. This one... it speaks. Not in words. In sorrow. You will feel it before you see it."
Mournroot stirred, the earth beneath it shifting. Thorns rose briefly, then receded.
Vaelrik turned eastward.
"Then we free it. And whatever power they drain, we reclaim."
They broke camp at dawn, moving swift and silent through the wastelands. The air was colder now, sharper, as if the land knew what came next. Skarn led the way, his growl constant, low. Zephyrion scouted ahead, flashes of light breaking through the clouds. Valgrin kept to the rear, fire trailing in his wake.
As they neared the hills, Forge slowed.
"There," he said, pointing to a jagged outcrop. "Beneath that stone lies the fortress. Hidden to eyes. But not to chains."
Vaelrik approached the outcrop, hand pressed to the earth. He felt it... faint tremors, a heartbeat of something trapped, waiting. The Brand surged in response.
"Prepare," he said.
Skarn growled in response. The beasts gathered, silent. Ready.
Vaelrik drew the Brand, the air shifting.
"This crown will not wait."
And they descended into the dark.
Beneath the earth, the world changed.
Passages twisted through stone and shadow, the walls lined with relics of rusted metal and broken chains. The air stank of oil, smoke, and blood. Vaelrik moved first, every step deliberate, the Brand casting faint light.
They passed cells, each empty, but scarred by claw marks and burn lines. Skarn sniffed the air and growled low. Valgrin's tail flicked, heat building. Zephyrion remained above, navigating the narrow tunnel with wings folded.
Then they found it.
A chamber, vast and circular, pulsing with red light. In its center, a beast chained to a black iron throne. Its body was slender, almost serpentine, covered in metal plates fused to flesh. Its eyes glowed faint yellow. It did not move.
Forge stepped forward. "This is wrong. They tried to forge it into something else."
Vaelrik clenched his jaw. "Then we break it free."
The chains hissed and pulsed, reacting. From the shadows, figures emerged—masked, armored, wielding blades crackling with stolen power.
Vaelrik stepped between them and the beast.
"Crown it," he said. "Or fall."
The battle began.