The stone fortress of Greyhollow stood atop a sheer cliff, half-carved from the mountain's bones. It was old, older than any imperial archive recorded—built not by the Empire, but by the Thornblood clans that once ruled the wildlands before the First Conquest. Its spires were jagged, like the blackened crowns of dead kings.
Duncan had never been here before, but something about the place tugged at his bones.
As his company approached, the gates creaked open. Armed guards stood watch with spears tipped in obsidian and cloaks stitched with beast-hide. These were not imperial soldiers.
They were wildborn.
Kael muttered from horseback, "Last time I saw this many tribes in one place, someone lost an eye and half a tongue before the meeting started."
Brannoc snorted. "If that's all we lose, I'll call it a good day."
The Circle Gathers
Inside the Great Hall of Thorns, the council had already begun.
A circular chamber with a hollow center, lit by hanging braziers and a skylight cracked with ivy. Representatives of more than a dozen factions sat on stone benches: fur-cloaked Thornblood chiefs, pale-skinned seers with painted eyes, grizzled frontier captains from the Southwatch, and even one iron-armored beast-kin noble who bore scars like cracked earth.
All turned as Duncan entered.
Lord Harrex stood near the center, impassive as ever. He gestured with two fingers. "Blackvale. Step forward."
Duncan did.
A tall woman in dark green robes leaned over her staff. "This is the one from Verdant Hollow? The one who returned with the mark?"
"Confirmed," Harrex said. "He survived the tomb. And the Dunemar breach."
A deep voice rumbled across the room. "Then let him speak. Let's see if the Empire has a spine left."
The Warning
Duncan didn't flinch under their scrutiny. He stepped into the center, faced the assembly, and spoke:
"I saw what lies beyond Dunemar. I saw the shadows that walk without flesh. I saw the echo of a memory not born of this age."
He threw a pouch onto the ground—the shattered fragments of the orb.
"Not beast. Not man. Something older. It leaves no wounds, but it kills all the same. We found an entire garrison dead. Not a drop of blood spilled."
A low murmur spread.
Duncan continued. "The beasts—the Hollow Fangs—they're running east not to conquer. They're fleeing. Something behind them is driving them out. Something ancient."
A bald man with tattoos of flame over his scalp snarled. "And we're supposed to believe this because a loyalist mutt survived a few shadows?"
Kael stood. "He survived because he carries something your priests fear. And because he doesn't serve your thrones or ours. He serves the land. Like you used to."
The murmuring stopped.
All eyes returned to Duncan.
Old Truths Unearthed
An elder among the Thornblood—his face folded with time, beard woven with bone trinkets—stood with difficulty.
"The beast kings are dead. The Empire breaks at the seams. And now you speak of a third force... a darkness we buried long ago."
He turned to Harrex.
"You knew."
Harrex didn't deny it. "We suspected. For generations, certain bloodlines were watched. Certain ruins sealed. The Verdant Hollow was never meant to be found."
Another chieftain growled, "Then you kept the truth from the wilds. From your own allies."
"The Empire believed it could control what it buried," Duncan said quietly. "But I saw the truth in the tomb. We are not its masters. We are its prey."
A New Front
Silence held for a long moment.
Then the beast-kin noble rose. His voice was low, guttural, but firm.
"The darkness you describe... my grandfather called it the Unborn Flame. Not a thing, but a hunger. It consumes bloodlines. Leaves nothing. He claimed our people once fought it, and paid a price so great we surrendered to the Empire just to forget."
He looked around.
"If it's waking... then we must remember how to fight."
Duncan nodded. "We'll need more than swords. We'll need unity."
The room laughed bitterly.
"The Empire and the clans? The beast-kin and the flame-touched? We've spilled each other's blood for centuries."
"And you'll spill more when the shadows come," Duncan snapped. "But it won't matter. The darkness doesn't care about your banners or grudges. It only feeds."
A Fractured Accord
In the end, they didn't agree.
Not fully.
But some pledged men. Others, supplies. A few promised nothing—but they didn't walk out, either. That was more than Duncan had hoped for.
As the council disbanded, Lord Harrex approached him.
"You speak like a soldier. But you're becoming something else."
"I didn't ask to be anything."
Harrex's eyes gleamed. "No one does. But the blood chooses."
Duncan looked up at the hanging ivy, at the cracks in the skylight where moonlight poured down.
"The cracks are growing."
Harrex nodded.
"So gather your iron, Blackvale. The war that's coming won't be fought by empire or beast alone. We'll need something new."
Duncan turned away, hand brushing the medallion at his chest.
Not something new.
Something forgotten.