The wind carried the scent of death long before the riders saw the town.
Six of them crested the ridge above Blackreed, cloaks heavy with dust, their horses skittish beneath them. The lead rider narrowed his eyes at the horizon — no smoke, but no banners either.
"Still nothing," one murmured. "Not since the reports made by refugees fleeing Duskwatch."
"Damned those evil creatures," muttered another.
"Not that I'd welcome meeting the abominations ourselves," said a third, "but better that than having no notion where they've gone."
"Agreed. It hasn't turned toward the main city — not yet. But we've no guess what it seeks. Or what it understands."
They descended at a careful pace.
The outskirts met them with an unnatural hush. Not the stillness of sleep, but the hollow quiet that follows devastation. Buildings stood blackened and leaning. The gate was torn from its hinges. As though something massive had passed through without anger, without haste.
One of the riders dismounted, kneeling beside a broken spear haft.
"Looks like they never stood a chance."
The captain ignored the comment. "How many survivors?"
"Maybe a quarter of the town. Could've been worse."
"Would've been better had they evacuated immediately. But nothing ever runs clean in times like these. Any sign of the adventurers?"
"None. Hard to tell who's who, with the limbs scattered and the bodies half-consumed."
The well in the square remained untouched. But the stone around it was scorched — blackened by something no torch could make.
—
By the time the riders reached the ruins of Blackreed, the two monsters had long vanished, slipping through thickets and tangled forest, deeper into land untouched by men.
They entered a vast cave — mouth wide as a temple, its entrance veiled in creeping moss. The iron guardian stepped inside without hesitation. The crimson centipede paused, its feelers twitching, then followed, though it seemed ill at ease with the destination.
Though free of human claim, the cave was not empty.
Bats scattered near the entrance, but deeper still stirred things far older — misshapen beasts, monstrous silhouettes shifting between stalagmites. Armored giants with twisted limbs, hissing swarms of flesh and bone, winged aberrations roosting in silence.
None barred the iron guardian's path. Though a low, rattling hiss passed between the centipede and a crawling mound of limbs — perhaps kin in shape, rivals in instinct.
At last, they reached the core chamber.
There, waiting, stood the final defender of this place — a tall, winged creature clad in strange garments: a feathered tricorn hat, leather fatigues held by belts and buttons, and in its hand, a long, jagged rapier pulsing with foul light.
Its wings, vast and weather-worn, draped behind it like a noble's mantle. And though its form suggested battle, it did not charge. It simply watched.
The guardian approached, slow but unflinching.
The winged sentinel raised its blade — not in anger, but in readiness. Not a challenge. Not yet.
The centipede crept up the wall, mandibles shut, but claws poised to tear its poisoned scales should the signal come. Around the room, lesser dungeon beasts watched from shadowed alcoves, unsure whether the knight had come to conquer, to dwell… or something stranger still.
What followed was not witnessed by men.
But in time, word returned — scattered rumors, impossible accounts. Not of war. Not of conquest.
Of liberation.
The iron knight, it was said, did not claim the dungeon.
It freed its guardian.
And in doing so, began a chain of quiet unravelings — dungeon after dungeon, purpose undone, chains broken.
Why it did so, none could say.
Whether it sought vengeance or salvation, none could know.
But all who heard knew one thing: the shape of the world had shifted.
And what rose in that wake bore no kindness for mankind.