The winds of the frontier howled with no allegiance.
Duncan stood at the edge of a jagged cliff, his cloak flaring behind him, staring down at the outpost below—a crumbling fortress of rusted iron and moss-choked stone, more graveyard than bastion. This was Fort Thorne, the last standing Dominion foothold on the Wildfront.
"Not much of a legion," Brannoc muttered, stepping beside him.
They had arrived that morning, escorted by Yelra's black riders who left without a word, as if eager to rid themselves of the weight Duncan now carried. No banners flew. No trumpet greeted them. Only the silence of the untamed wild and the broken breath of a forgotten fortress.
A fitting welcome.
The soldiers stationed here were little more than castaways—disgraced veterans, exiles, conscripts from debt-families. Their armor bore more patch than plate. Their weapons were dull, not from use, but from neglect.
But Duncan's eyes saw something more.
Survivors.
The Commander's Quarters
The quarters assigned to Duncan were spartan—an iron cot, a warped desk, and a shattered mirror. Still, they overlooked the forest wall that stretched out like a green ocean.
Brannoc tossed a folded parchment onto the desk.
"Inventory records. They haven't had fresh supplies in six months. Two ballista bolts left. Forty working swords. Food enough for a week, if you call mossbread food."
Duncan sighed. "And the garrison?"
"Seventy-six souls," Brannoc replied. "But only thirty-five fit to fight. The rest are either half-starved or broken in the head."
Duncan ran his hand across the desk. His fingers stopped at a deep gouge.
Burnt into the wood was a faded symbol: a man standing before a beast with antlers.
His breath caught.
It was the same image from the Hollow.
He turned to Brannoc. "Someone else was here before."
Brannoc nodded grimly. "Command cycles Wildfront officers every few years. None ever return. They either go rogue… or vanish."
First Assembly
Duncan stood atop the outer rampart, the broken bell beside him rusted mute.
Before him, the entire garrison had assembled in ragged rows.
Eyes of all kinds stared up—suspicious, hollow, angry.
He recognized the type.
Men who had been forgotten.
Women who had stopped believing in orders.
But Duncan didn't flinch.
"I am Field Commander Duncan Haleth," he began, voice carrying over the wind. "You've been called cowards, cursed, traitors, useless."
He let the silence stretch.
"I'm not here to fix that. I'm not here to redeem you. I'm here because the Dominion is afraid."
Some heads lifted.
"They fear what's out there," he continued, pointing toward the forest. "And they fear what's waking inside us. The Hollow is stirring. The beasts are changing. And we—this broken legion—are the only line left."
He took a breath.
"So here's the deal. You can keep rotting in your bunk, waiting for the next death patrol… or you can stand up, sharpen your blade, and earn a place in the future."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Then silence.
Then a voice from the back: "What if we don't follow you?"
Duncan didn't hesitate.
"Then I bury you the way I found you—nameless, useless, and forgotten."
He stepped down.
Brannoc smirked.
"Not bad for a dead man's post."
The Forest's Edge
Three days passed.
Duncan walked the perimeter twice a day, mapping the terrain, noting weaknesses in the palisade, counting arrow slits, examining beast signs in the underbrush. The trees here weren't just alive—they listened. Leaves turned in his direction when he passed. Roots creaked underfoot.
Something was changing.
And then, it arrived.
At dawn on the fourth day, a runner stumbled into the gate—covered in blood, one arm torn open.
"Scouting team... they didn't make it," the man gasped. "Something's in the Hollowpine Valley. Bigger than anything we've seen."
Duncan knelt beside him. "What did it look like?"
The man stared past him.
"It didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"No eyes. No flesh. Just bone and breath and… voices. It screamed in my head."
Marching Orders
Duncan stood before the war table that night.
A hand-sketched map of the surrounding region lay open. Brannoc pointed to the valley's edge.
"If it's what I think, then it's not just a wild beast," he said. "It's a Hollow-born warden. Left behind by the Oldbloods to guard their sacred places."
"Why now?" Duncan asked. "Why awaken now?"
Brannoc frowned. "Maybe because someone touched the throne."
Duncan rolled his shoulders.
"We move at first light. Ten scouts, ten hunters. I want every ballista bolt sharpened. Crossbows strung. Blades dipped in blackroot sap."
"You mean to fight it?"
"I mean to see what it fears."
Brannoc's eyes narrowed. "You're starting to sound like one of them."
Duncan's voice was steady. "I'm not one of them."
He looked toward the forest, eyes burning.
"I'm worse."