The League's war camp spread across the western plains like a living forest. Tents of green and gold stitched with thorn patterns rose in clusters. Wooden stakes circled the perimeter, and watchtowers of lashed timbers stood tall with hawks perched above them, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
Unlike Dominion camps — iron, fire, chains — this one was alive with motion. Beasts moved freely among men: Servitor hounds carrying packs, Noble mounts drinking at troughs, even a towering Treant-Beast standing motionless like a sentry tree at the edge of camp.
Where the Dominion broke beasts, the League bound them through oaths. Marks still glowed on their chests, but they were not burned in with iron. They pulsed faintly, etched in ritual ink, binding spirit to spirit.
Some beasts looked proud, some weary. But none carried the hollow emptiness seen in Dominion pens.
---
General Cael Brennor sat at the center tent, armored in green and gold, his scarred cheek catching the light of the brazier. His voice carried calm authority as he studied the map spread before him.
"Scouts report Dominion banners to the east," one officer said. "Kaelith Veynar leads them. His march heads directly for the Ruins of Chains."
The tent grew still.
Commander Lysara Valenne leaned over the table, her red hair catching the firelight. "Of course. Dominion would chain even the stones themselves if it gave them power."
Theros Kairn adjusted his spectacles, frowning. "The Ruins birthed the first slave marks. If Kaelith seizes them, he'll claim the right to make chains law across Theia."
Cael raised a hand, steadying them. His eyes were calm, but the weight in them silenced both. "Then we will stop him. The Ruins are not theirs to brand and bind. If they must belong to anyone, they will belong to us — to prove the world does not bow to Dominion law."
As if on cue, the Treant-Beast outside groaned, vines curling toward the sky. Its glowing marks pulsed as though answering his words.
"Our beasts stand with us by choice," Cael continued. "So long as that remains true, we will not break."
An officer cleared his throat. "Our strength, General?"
Cael's gaze rested on the roster. "Ten thousand march with us. Six thousand spears, two thousand riders, fifteen hundred handlers, and five hundred archers. The Treant stands watch, and Lysara's panther is ready. We also have a handful of Nobles sworn to the cause — more than we've had in years."
Murmurs stirred. It was no small force, yet still dwarfed by Dominion numbers.
Theros frowned. "Enough for resistance, not for dominance. If Kaelith presses with his chains, he'll bleed us before the Ruins."
Lysara's eyes flashed. "Then we make them bleed faster. Our beasts fight with will, not out of fear. That alone makes us stronger."
Cael's voice steadied the tent again. "We will meet them at the Ruins. Win or lose, the world will see we do not kneel."
---
Later, as night deepened, Lysara walked the camp, her shadow-panther padding silently beside her. Soldiers saluted as she passed, though most quickly looked away from the predator at her heel. Its sleek body moved like smoke, every step soundless, eyes glowing amber in the firelight.
She paused at the oath-circle, where handlers performed their rituals. Chalk sigils were drawn in careful lines on the ground. Incense burned in clay bowls, the smoke curling into strange shapes. A beast — a stag with a broken antler — knelt uneasily within the circle.
Soft chants filled the air, steady and low. A handler pressed ritual ink across the stag's fur, painting symbols on its chest. Unlike the Dominion's iron brands, the mark was not burned. Instead it pulsed slowly, a glow rising from within as if the beast's spirit resonated with the words spoken.
The stag bowed its head. Its mark flared once, then steadied, the glow dimming to a faint shimmer beneath its hide. The chanting stopped. The beast rose again, breathing heavy but calm.
The soldiers around the circle cheered lightly. "Another oath sealed. The lines will hold."
Lysara watched with folded arms, her expression unreadable.
"Not chains," she murmured at last, voice quiet but edged. "But not freedom, either."
Her panther growled low, ears flicking back. It pressed its body against her leg, eyes narrowing at the stag as if judging it.
Lysara's lips curved into a smirk. She reached down, running her fingers through the panther's dark fur. "I know. At least you chose me."
The panther's growl softened into a rumble, a sound that was almost content. Around them, the oath-circle broke apart, handlers wiping sweat from their brows. The stag was led away, its glowing mark faint in the night — a prisoner of promise, not iron.
Lysara's gaze lingered as she turned back toward her tent. "One day," she whispered to herself, "we'll see if oaths are enough to break chains."
The panther padded beside her, silent as the night.
---
At dawn, the camp stirred again. Hawks wheeled overhead, scouts running to the command tent.
"Dominion banners sighted!" one cried. "Kaelith marches with a full cohort. They will reach the Ruins by dusk!"
The camp erupted in motion. Soldiers strapped armor, handlers steadied beasts, horns sounded across the fields.
Cael stood tall, drawing his sword. "Then the thorns will rise. Ready the lines. We meet them at the Ruins of Chains."
The war had begun.