The gates of Fort Thorne groaned open as Duncan led the remnants of the Thornborn camp back through the mountain pass.
Seventy Dominion soldiers stood at the ramparts, bows lowered but ready. Behind them, the scorched walls of the outpost loomed like judgment itself.
Duncan walked at the front of the procession—blood-streaked, armor dented, his left hand still faintly glowing beneath a torn leather glove. Around him marched wildborn warriors who had once sworn their blades to the Antlered Son. Now, they bore no symbols, only silence.
Brannoc rode beside him, expression grim. "Bringing ferals back to a Dominion fort. Never thought I'd see it."
Kael, walking behind them, muttered, "You didn't see the fight. He won more than their fear."
Duncan kept his eyes forward. "They bent the knee. That makes them soldiers now."
"Soldiers without a flag," Brannoc said.
"Then I'll give them one," Duncan replied.
Audience of Doubt
Inside the war hall, the room was colder than usual. A brazier in the center struggled against the creeping chill. The long table once used for battle planning was now covered in fresh scrolls, maps, and a sealed black case.
Three men in crimson cloaks stood near it—Dominion emissaries. Not soldiers. Politicians. Their gazes were sharp, polished like daggers dulled by bureaucracy.
One stepped forward.
"Commander Duncan Blackvale," he said. "I am Inquisitor Veil. We bring judgment from the High Council of Ardent Spire."
Duncan folded his arms. "I didn't request judgment."
"No," Veil said calmly. "But heresy does not wait for an invitation."
He opened the black case with a ceremonial flourish, revealing a scroll inscribed in red ink, rimmed with beastbone dust.
To the soldier known as Duncan Blackvale,
You are hereby accused of violating the Articles of Steel, sub-clause 9:
'No Dominion soldier shall consort, cooperate, or campaign alongside beasts or beast cultists.'
Veil raised his eyes. "You stand accused of consorting with wildborn tribes, absorbing forbidden factions, and claiming an artifact marked with Warden glyphs—a direct challenge to central authority."
Brannoc swore under his breath.
Kael's hand drifted toward her dagger.
Duncan didn't flinch. "I didn't consort. I conquered. And they serve under Dominion law now."
Veil's lips curled. "Your law. Not ours."
The Council's Choice
Veil paced slowly around the brazier, letting the firelight dance across his fine robes.
"You have a choice, Commander," he said. "Disband your wildborn auxiliaries. Surrender the Warden relic. Accept reassignment to the Eastern Front."
"And if I refuse?" Duncan asked.
Veil smiled thinly. "Then you become what the Council fears—a man who wears both steel and fang. A symbol. And symbols must be… burned."
The room was silent.
Outside, the wind picked up, howling like a beast clawing at the gates.
Duncan stepped toward the fire. His shadow stretched long across the floor, flickering like a banner.
"You want the medallion?" he said.
He pulled it from beneath his tunic and tossed it onto the brazier.
Flames roared blue. The relic pulsed with life, casting strange patterns on the walls.
Veil stepped back. "What are you—"
Duncan drew his sword and pointed it not at the emissaries—but at the flame.
"I make my choice."
A Banner of Flame
The brazier exploded in a pillar of smoke, and when it cleared, the medallion hung in the air—unchanged, floating as if anchored to the air itself.
Around it, the flames formed a rough sigil—a wolf's head split by a sword, with antlers curling behind it like a crown.
Kael whispered, "That's… a crest."
Brannoc nodded, stunned. "One I've never seen."
Duncan stepped into the smoke and spoke loudly, his voice echoing through the hall.
"This is my pact. Not with cults. Not with beasts. But with all who live beyond the lies of the High Council."
He turned to the emissaries.
"You will not decide what rises from the ashes here. I will."
Veil scowled. "You claim dominion over more than men. That is treason."
"No," Duncan said. "That is foundation."
Division in the Ranks
The emissaries withdrew in silence.
That night, half of Fort Thorne's officers gathered in the war hall, called by rumors of the spectacle.
Some knelt to Duncan.
Some demanded he resign.
Some simply watched.
Kael approached him after midnight.
"You started a war with words, you know," she said.
"I know."
"Are you ready to fight it?"
He looked out over the walls, where wildborn and Dominion soldiers patrolled side by side—uneasy, but functional.
"I'm not building a rebellion," he said. "I'm building something that lasts longer than obedience."
Kael raised a brow. "Then you'd better start writing new laws."
In the Depths of the Fort
Later that night, Duncan walked alone into the old crypt beneath Fort Thorne—a place long sealed.
He carried the medallion.
Torches lit one by one as he moved deeper.
At the far end, a stone wall etched with ancient runes pulsed faintly.
Duncan placed the medallion against it.
The wall shimmered… and then slowly opened, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.
Inside: bones. Scrolls. And a throne not made of steel—but of roots, fangs, and frozen fire.
The Beast Throne.
Not myth.
Not legend.
Real.
And it was empty.
Duncan exhaled.
The path forward was no longer a question.
It was a promise.