The army reached the temporary campsite when the sun had already reached its peak.
It was not close enough for the fortress to be seen, but everyone knew it was there.
Aegulus waited beyond the ridges, hidden behind barren hills and dead stone, a few kilometers away. Even unseen, it pressed against the march like a hand on the back of the neck. The closer they came, the quieter the army became. Jokes died before they could grow. Orders were spoken in lower voices. The wheels of the wagons sounded too loud against the dry ground.
The chosen campsite sat on a wide stretch of hard earth where old battle scars had never healed.
No grass grew there.
No weeds.
No stubborn desert shrubs.
Only blackened soil, cracked stone, small craters, and the remnants of what had happened two years ago.
Molly slowed near the edge of the clearing, snorting once as if even she disliked the smell. Shane pulled the reins gently, guiding Shieldbreaker's wagon to a stop near a row of weather-worn stakes.
Behind them, the other wagons halted one by one.
Wood creaked.
Horses stamped.
Soldiers began unloading crates, canvas sheets, rope, and barrels, but even their movements slowed when they truly looked at the ground beneath their boots.
The place was burned.
Not simply scorched by campfires or battle magic.
Burned deep.
The earth had turned hard and black in wide patches, like something vast had poured flame over it until the soil itself surrendered. In some places, stone had melted and cooled into warped shapes, glossy and dark. Old armor plates lay half-buried in the dirt, twisted by heat. Shields rested in fragments, some cracked cleanly in half, others melted along the rims until the metal had dripped like wax.
A young subjugator stepped down from his wagon and stared.
"What kind of fire did this?"
No one answered immediately.
Another crouched beside a melted breastplate and touched the edge with two fingers. He pulled back quickly, though the metal was long cold.
"Gods…"
Ulon climbed down from Shieldbreaker's wagon and lost his usual loudness for once. His eyes moved over the field, then to a broken helmet near his foot.
"Well," he muttered, quieter than usual, "that's one way to make a campsite welcoming."
Shalotte stepped down next, gripping his staff tightly. His face had gone pale.
"This was from the old raid?" he asked.
Priest Maynard followed, one hand on the wagon rail as he descended. He looked across the field with a grave expression.
"Yes," he said. "Some wounds remain even when the bodies are gone."
Kiel stared at the ruined ground, excitement thinning from his face.
Maddy bit her lip again.
Petra said nothing. She only looked toward the west, where Aegulus waited beyond the land's broken teeth.
Klaus unmounted from Eason's wagon without speaking.
His boots touched the ground.
The memory struck before he could stop it.
Not as a thought.
As a place waking up around him.
The blackened earth beneath his feet became mud and blood.
The wind became smoke.
The distant voices of soldiers unloading supplies became screams.
He stood still beside the wagon, one hand resting lightly on the sideboard.
A ruined cage wagon lay ahead.
Not the wagon itself. Not anymore.
What remained was a broken skeleton of wood and iron, half-collapsed on one side. Its bars were bent outward. One wheel was missing. The other had split down the middle, spokes jutting out like broken fingers.
Klaus knew it.
Of course, he knew it.
That had been the wagon.
The one he and Leopold had used for cover when the chaos reached its peak.
His throat tightened beneath the shadow of his hood.
Two years ago, the world had been fire.
Spells rained from both sides, bright and terrible, crashing into shields, tents, wagons, flesh. The air had been full of ash and dust and the sharp stink of burned hair. Goblins swarmed through the smoke in shrieking waves. Soldiers shouted orders no one could hear. Slaves screamed, trying to fight with just a wooden club, some pleaded, some were too terrified to move, and died on the spot.
Klaus remembered being smaller.
Weaker. Thinner.
His wrists were still raw from chains.
He remembered Leopold dragging him behind the broken wagon and shoving him down.
"Stay low. Let's escape silently."
A spell burst nearby.
The whole world flashed white.
Wood splinters rained over them.
Klaus remembered gripping that club with both hands, shaking so badly he could barely lift it.
He remembered the goblin he killed with it.
Its teeth were red.
Its eyes were wide.
The memory cracked through him like old bone.
He looked toward the ground.
There it was.
Half-buried in ash-colored dirt.
A thick, warped piece of wood, darker than it should have been, its handle worn by old blood and older fear. Time had split it in places. One side was burned. The other still carried faint cuts from goblin blades.
Klaus' fingers curled.
That weapon had saved him.
Behind him, more subjugators entered the clearing.
Their awe spread quickly.
Even those who had laughed during the march fell silent.
Eason stepped down from his wagon with care.
For once, he did not smile.
His cane touched the blackened ground, and he stood there, looking across the campsite with eyes that had seen too much and remembered more than he wanted.
Charles remained near the wagon, gaze cold and unreadable. Madlock stood farther away, his jaw set tight as he studied the remnants of armor and old fortifications.
Orlane crossed the ground slowly, solid and heavy, as if each step had to ask permission from the dead.
Hellhound stood near the edge of the clearing, silent as a black post, his gaze fixed toward the unseen fortress.
Rio was the only one who looked more interested than disturbed. He crouched beside a piece of melted metal, touched the blackened ground, then lifted his fingers to his nose.
"Old fire," he said.
Ulon stared at him. "Did he just sniff battlefield dirt?"
"Ignore him. He has his way," Shane said calmly. But his eyes betrayed him for a second.
Eason's gaze moved from the melted shields to the burned soil, then finally toward the broken cage wagon.
"It was indeed true," he said quietly.
Those nearby turned to him.
The old man's voice remained calm, but it carried a different weight now.
"The Goblin King burned everything."
Priest Maynard lowered his head slightly. "So the survivors did not exaggerate."
"No," Eason said. "If anything, they were merciful in their telling."
Before anyone could answer, the wind above them shifted.
Klaus heard it first.
A pressure in the air.
A faint cut through the sky.
Several soldiers looked up too late.
A shadow dropped from above.
It fell fast, cloak snapping like a torn banner, boots aimed toward the blackened ground. A few younger subjugators reached for their weapons. One guard even stumbled backward and cursed.
The figure landed near Eason with a hard thud, one knee bent, one hand touching the ground.
Dust burst around her.
Samantha rose from the crouch, her short cloak settling over her shoulders. Her expression was as cold as ever, though a thin layer of dust clung to her boots and sleeves. She had come from the direction of the western ridge, from the high ground nearest the fortress.
She had not arrived with them.
She had gone ahead.
To scout.
Eason turned to her, not surprised in the slightest.
"Samantha," he said mildly. "You do enjoy dramatic entrances."
Samantha clicked her tongue. "Better than crawling back like an old rat."
A few soldiers immediately looked away, wisely pretending not to hear that.
Eason's mouth curved faintly. "A fair point. Report."
Samantha's face lost what little mockery it carried.
Her gaze shifted toward the west.
"No movement from the fortress," she said.
That sentence quieted the camp more effectively than any shout.
The soldiers stopped unloading.
The captains turned.
Madlock's eyes narrowed.
Charles' expression sharpened by a hair.
Shane, who had been checking Molly's harness, slowly straightened.
Eason did not speak at once.
"No movement?" he asked.
"None," Samantha said. "No patrol shifting on the outer ridge. No smoke change. No gate activity. No horn. No scouts. No goblin trash sniffing around the old road. Nothing."
Ulon frowned. "Isn't that good?"
Samantha looked at him as if he had just licked poison to check the flavor.
"No, healer. That's not good."
Ulon lifted both hands. "Just asking."
She looked back at Eason.
"I reached the second ridge. Close enough to see the watch platforms. The fortress is quiet. Too quiet."
Madlock stepped forward, his gentle face turned grave.
"You were one of the survivors of the last raid," he said softly. "Was it like this before?"
Samantha's jaw tightened.
For once, her answer did not come immediately.
The wind moved through the camp, dragging dust over old burn marks.
Then she said, "No."
The word was flat.
Certain.
She looked across the blackened field, and for a heartbeat, her cold mask thinned. Not enough to show fear. Samantha did not offer that to anyone. But enough for Klaus to see memory pass behind her eyes.
"The last time, I felt them before we saw them," she said. "The ground shook as they marched. Patrols moved like ants. Goblin stinks in the wind. We knew they were waiting. We just didn't know how badly they would break us."
Her gaze returned to Eason.
"This is unprecedented."
That word carried farther than the rest.
The captains exchanged glances.
One muttered, "Unprecedented is another word for 'we're in trouble.'"
The other replied, "No, that's old survivor language for 'we're already in it.'"
No one laughed.
Eason looked toward the unseen fortress.
His cane rested lightly against the ground, but his fingers had tightened over its head.
"Interesting," he said.
Samantha scoffed. "That better not be your final answer, old man."