The fires still burned along Fort Thorne's eastern wall.
Corpses—some man, some beast—lay in heaps. The scent of burnt hair, blood, and cracked bone lingered thick in the air. Dawn had come, but the light felt muted, as if the sky itself recoiled from what had occurred in the night.
Duncan stood at the ruined gate, hands resting on the hilt of his bloodied sword, eyes distant.
The boar's voice still echoed in his head.
"Child of the Throne…"
He hadn't told anyone what he heard. Not Kael. Not Brannoc. And certainly not Maeron. But the images had not faded: a throne of roots, a crown of horns, a realm made not of stone—but of beast and bark and bone.
What disturbed him most wasn't the vision.
It was the familiarity of it.
The General Confronts
Maeron found him near the shattered wall, inspecting the remains of the twisted boar.
The Quiet General rarely showed emotion, but this morning, there was something in his stare—expectation, maybe even recognition.
"Do you dream of it?" Maeron asked.
Duncan turned. "Of what?"
"The throne."
Duncan stiffened.
"I saw your eyes last night," Maeron continued, crouching beside the corpse. "When the beast spoke to you. I've seen it before. Once, long ago. Another man—another war. He wore that same expression. Like he'd just remembered a home he never knew he lost."
Duncan didn't answer.
Maeron stood, brushing ash from his gloves.
"You're not just some upjumped soldier, Blackvale. You're something else. Something old."
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "You spying for the Emperor?"
Maeron gave a tight smile. "The Emperor already knows. He just doesn't know how much you know."
Whispers in the Blood
Later, Duncan walked alone through the crypt tunnels beneath Fort Thorne. The wildborn refused to go there. Even Kael kept her distance now.
He stopped before the altar room—the same chamber where the sigil had first burned his hand.
The runes etched in the walls shimmered faintly now, as if acknowledging him.
He approached the central slab, now cracked, and placed his palm against the stone.
For a moment… nothing.
Then—
"Kneel."
The voice was not external.
It came from his own veins.
Suddenly, images flooded his mind—battles waged beneath crimson suns; men adorned in beastbone armor; a crown grown from living wood placed on the brow of a boy with his face.
"You are the heir."
He staggered back, gasping.
Blood dripped from his palm. The medallion around his neck glowed bright red, then faded.
He clenched it in his fist.
"No," he muttered. "I don't kneel."
Bloodlines and Betrayals
That evening, Brannoc approached him with news.
"There's a woman in the refugee camp. Says she knew your father."
Duncan frowned. "My father died fifteen years ago."
"Then either she's lying… or something's wrong with what you've been told."
Duncan followed Brannoc to the outer tents. The woman was old—weathered like desert stone, but her eyes were sharp.
She looked up as he approached. "So you are Veylin's son."
Duncan froze. "You knew my father?"
She nodded. "He wasn't just a soldier. He was a Warden of the Crownless."
"What?"
She leaned forward, voice hushed. "Before the Empire. Before the wars. There were kings who ruled the Wildfront—not from castles, but from living thrones. Your line was one of them. Beastbound. Bloodmarked."
Duncan's heart thudded.
"What happened to them?"
"The Empire happened."
Kael's Doubts
Later that night, Duncan sat in the war room, staring at an old map Maeron had left behind. He marked the areas where the Hollow Fangs had emerged—always near ancient growths and crypts.
Kael entered, eyes searching his face.
"You look like you've aged five years," she said, dropping a skin of water in front of him.
"I may have."
He told her everything. The voice. The altar. The old woman's words.
She listened silently.
When he finished, she sat back, arms crossed.
"So… what does that make you? A hidden prince of beasts?"
Duncan looked at her.
"I don't know what it makes me. But I know what it doesn't: it doesn't make me safe."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"Just don't forget who you are. You're Duncan Blackvale before you're anything else."
A Choice
That night, Duncan stood at the gates, staring out into the foggy woods.
A scout had returned moments ago—another hidden ruin found to the west. Beastblood markings on the stone. Whispers heard in the wind. The Hollow Fangs were moving again.
He had a choice.
Report back to the capital, let the Emperor decide what to do.
Or follow the whispers—follow the roots beneath the soil—to find what was left of the old kings. And maybe learn what made him different.
He tightened the straps on his armor.
He'd never been good at kneeling.
"Mount the horses," he said to Kael. "We ride at dawn."