The Dominion outpost was a scar against the wilderness. Rough stone walls cut into the hills, iron gates gleamed under torchlight, and black-and-crimson banners whipped in the night wind. Smoke curled from forges, thick with the stench of burned hide and seared iron.
Soldiers moved like clockwork within the walls. Some sparred in pairs, blades flashing in the torchlight. Others knelt over dice games, laughing too loud. From the beast pens came the sounds of chains rattling, of Servitor oxen bellowing and hounds whining as hot irons pressed against their skin.
Kaelith Veynar rode through the gates astride his Direwolf. The creature's paws struck the dirt with heavy rhythm, its chest-mark glowing faintly with each step. Conversations fell silent as men turned their heads. The presence of a Noble beast demanded respect, but it was Kaelith's gaze — cool, silver, sharp — that froze their words entirely.
He dismounted with slow precision. His cloak flowed behind him as he walked, boots crunching on the dirt, his expression composed. He didn't need to speak; discipline rose naturally in his wake.
---
At the officer's tent, voices carried before he entered.
"…telling you, it wasn't natural. The horns glowed. Like fire trapped in stone."
"Drunken talk."
"Three men died, Halric. Their bodies weren't drunk."
"Bah. Wildlings are dangerous, but molten horns? Madness."
Kaelith stepped inside, and the argument strangled into silence.
"Reports," he said simply, removing his gloves with practiced calm.
An officer cleared his throat, pushing markers across a worn map. "Scouts confirm anomaly surges near the ruins. Contracts break more often there. At least two Servitors abandoned their masters this week. A patrol lost a hound when its mark shattered."
Kaelith raised an eyebrow faintly. "Shattered?"
"Yes, my lord. The mark burned out, and the beast turned on them. Its body twisted before their eyes. They called it… mutated."
Murmurs rippled. Soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
Kaelith's lips curved faintly. "Mutation. A word for fear."
"Fear or not, it kills," the officer muttered, then stiffened under Kaelith's gaze.
Kaelith traced a finger over the map. The Ruins of Chains lay circled in black ink, jagged lines radiating outward. To the east stretched Dominion lands, solid red. To the north, mountain kingdoms stubborn in their independence. Westward, gold trade routes crisscrossed merchant cities. And south… only marshland and silence, more beast than man.
Theia was fractured. The Dominion sought to bind it together, piece by piece, chain by chain.
---
Kaelith left the tent as Servitors were dragged past, ropes biting into their necks. One ox stumbled, its hide scarred from too many irons. A soldier kicked it, snarling. The beast bellowed, collapsed, and did not rise again.
"Slot freed," the soldier muttered.
Kaelith did not look away. Pity was wasted breath. Weakness was culled, so strength could thrive. That was order.
But his Direwolf growled low at his side, its eyes narrowing as it turned toward the outer walls.
Kaelith rested a hand lightly on its head. "Still thinking of that boy, are you?"
The beast rumbled.
Kaelith remembered Draven's eyes. A fool's conviction. Respect where others saw only tools. Chains rejected. He should have been beneath notice — yet the Direwolf had hesitated, as though recognizing something that Kaelith could not.
"Curious," he murmured.
---
Later, alone in his tent, Kaelith poured a cup of dark wine. The map lay unrolled before him.
The **Ruins of Chains**. A wound in the world.
Anomalies surged most there. Mutations appeared in numbers too great to dismiss. Whispers spoke of beasts twisting beyond their nature — Servitors burning with fire, Nobles sprouting limbs that should not exist, Kings bending faster than ink could bind.
If the Dominion could control whatever secrets the ruins held, they would wield power unmatched.
That was why he had been sent. That was why order demanded his march.
He swirled the cup, silver eyes distant. "And if that fool crosses my path again…"
He drank, slow and deliberate. "…I will decide then. Chain him. Or break him."
---
By dawn, the camp stirred to life. Drums beat, soldiers armed themselves, and beasts strained against their chains. Iron clinked, leather creaked, banners rose into the pale morning light.
Kaelith mounted his Direwolf. The beast's chest-mark glowed brighter as if eager for blood.
"Forward," he commanded.
The Dominion marched toward the ruins.