The cavern air thinned as the passage sloped upward, until the walls cracked open into a ledge overlooking the outside world. The group emerged cautiously, boots crunching against loose shale. The night had fallen fully, but below them a valley spread wide, lit by countless fires that burned like stars scattered across the earth.
Zeke's breath caught in his throat. He'd seen camps before—desert bivouacs in Texas, outlaw hideouts in the badlands—but nothing like this. The entire basin boiled with movement. Thousands of figures crowded the valley floor, some huddled around roaring bonfires, others marching in grim formations. The stench of smoke and blood drifted upward, carried by the mountain wind.
"Holy hell," Zeke whispered, leaning against the rocky lip. "That's… that's a goddamn army."
Torches snaked through the mass, outlining crooked banners scrawled with the Black Dragon's sigil. Goblins swarmed like ants, their squat shapes clustering in packs, jabbering and hissing. Among them moved taller figures in dark robes, their hoods glowing faintly with painted runes. Some cultists knelt in rows before altars hammered from crude stone, chanting in a rhythm that made Zeke's teeth ache.
The sound hit them a moment later—an endless drone of voices rising and falling like waves, punctuated by guttural shrieks and the pounding of war drums. The noise seeped into Zeke's chest, steady as a second heartbeat.
One of the knights cursed under his breath. "We can't fight that. We'd be swallowed in an instant."
The group fell into a heavy silence. Only the crackle of distant fire and the hollow beat of the drums filled the air.
Seraphine stood at the ledge, her knuckles white around her sword hilt. Her face was set, but Zeke could see the storm behind her eyes—the calculation, the dread. She was a commander, and commanders had to count numbers. The math here was impossible: a dozen villagers, weary and bleeding, against thousands fanatical enough to die without hesitation.
Zeke swallowed, forcing his voice low. "This ain't a battle. It's a slaughter waitin' to happen."
Her gaze didn't leave the valley. "If we turn back, they march unchecked. They'll burn every village from here to the sea. There will be nowhere left to run."
The words struck heavy. The men behind her shifted uneasily, their fear sharpening. Zeke caught their eyes—men who'd laughed by the campfire days ago, who'd bled together in caves. Now their faces were pale, their shoulders hunched, as if the sheer sight of the enemy had stolen the marrow from their bones.
The youngest knight broke first. "We can't win. We'll die here. All of us."
Another muttered agreement. A third stepped back from the ledge, shaking his head as if refusing to believe what he saw.
Zeke felt the despair wash over the group like a tide, and for the first time since he'd arrived in this world, he understood what hopelessness truly looked like. Not just fear—but the absence of even the possibility of victory.
He pressed a hand against his chest, over the faint burn of the dragon-mark that pulsed beneath his shirt. It had been a whisper these last hours, a faint throb. Now, staring into the valley, it hammered harder, hot and insistent. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to rip his shirt open and see if the damned thing was glowing.
Seraphine finally turned back to the men, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "We are not here to win a war tonight. We are here to see, to learn, and to strike where it matters most. Hold your courage. If we falter now, there will be no chance later."
But her words, though steady, could not hide the flicker in her eyes. Even she felt the weight of what stood below.
The chanting in the valley shifted suddenly, louder, deeper. The drums quickened. Zeke looked back down—and his gut twisted. At the valley's center, a circle of cultists raised their arms high, robes flaring in the firelight. Between them burned a massive brazier, its flames not orange but a sickly green, belching smoke that curled into a low-hanging fog. The air shimmered above it, as though reality itself bent in the heat.
"They're not just gathering," Seraphine said, her voice tight. "They're performing a ritual."
As if summoned by her words, the fog thickened, spreading outward across the valley floor. Goblins screamed in ecstasy, cultists swayed with eyes rolled back, and the very ground seemed to quake with each chant.
Zeke's chest seared, pain flaring sharp and sudden. He stumbled, gripping the rock for balance. The mark on his skin burned like molten iron, syncing with the rhythm of the drums below. Each beat was a hammer-blow against his ribs.
He hissed through his teeth, trying to breathe. "Something's—wrong. It's waking up."
The others turned sharply, but before anyone could ask, the valley itself answered.
From within the rolling fog, deep at its heart, two points of light flared open—vast, reptilian, and burning like molten embers. The scale of them dwarfed the bonfires, casting a glow that turned the mist into a sea of shadows.
They were not torches. Not tricks of light.
They were eyes.
Eyes the size of houses, gleaming with cold, ancient hunger.
The Black Dragon was stirring.