The days after the village burning passed like a blur—smoke in the wind and steel in the soil. Auren barely slept. He barely spoke. But he moved. Always moving. Always planning.
Because something had changed.
It wasn't just the attack. It was the pattern. The way the scouts disappeared without a trace. The strange beasts sighted at the edges of the woods. The way some villagers whispered of shadows that breathed and moved like men.
The Southern Marches were waking up. And not everything waking was human.
The Warning
It came at dawn.
A rider, bloodied and half-conscious, stumbled through the outer watch line and collapsed at Auren's feet.
"They're coming," he gasped. "Not men. Not beasts. Something in between. They're heading this way."
The medic rushed forward, but the rider had already passed out. His horse was scratched with deep claw marks, and its eyes were wild with fear.
Eryn knelt by the rider, grim-faced.
"Another one lost," she muttered. "And we still don't know what we're fighting."
Auren's jaw tightened. "Then it's time we stopped waiting."
The Council at Dustfall
Later that evening, a meeting was held in Dustfall Keep—the old stone fort that had become their stronghold in the Marches. Once a forgotten ruin, now the only line of defense for the scattered villages.
Around the war table stood warriors, scouts, villagers-turned-fighters, and two Shardbearers: Auren and Eryn.
"This isn't a rebellion anymore," said Garron, a broad-shouldered captain with scars across his arms. "This is survival."
Maps were unrolled. Markers were placed. Words were exchanged—some calm, most sharp.
"We don't have enough men.""Then we train those who can fight.""The Crown will call us traitors.""They already do."
Eryn looked at Auren.
"Your call."
He looked around the room—faces dirty, tired, and afraid. But ready.
"We send messengers to every village still standing," Auren said. "Tell them the truth. The Crown won't help. If they want to live, they need to come here. To us."
"And what do we do in the meantime?" someone asked.
Auren's eyes glinted.
"We prepare for war."
The Shard's Echo
That night, Auren sat alone, staring into the flame of a low-burning lantern. His fingers brushed against his chest, where the Shard mark pulsed—dull and slow.
It had grown quieter lately. Less of a whisper and more of a distant hum. But when he focused, he felt it…
Power. Depth. Warning.
He closed his eyes—and the visions returned.
Flashes of a broken tower. Of a Crown weeping blood. Of chains, wrapped in light and shadow, cracking beneath the weight of something ancient.
Then a voice. Not his. Not the Shard's. Just a whisper in the dark:
"What sleeps beneath marches still."
He opened his eyes, breath caught in his throat.
Marching Orders
By the next morning, Dustfall had changed.
Tents were raised. Watch fires were lit on every hill. Every able hand trained with spear or bow. Auren, though still learning his power, led drills in the yard, his blade dancing like silver fire. He no longer moved like a noble's forgotten son. He moved like a leader with nothing to lose.
By dusk, a scout returned with word:
"Three more villages gone. No signs of fighting. Just… silence."
The wind howled that night, carrying with it the scent of something dark.
Auren stood on the battlements, watching the forest. The sky churned above—clouds thick and gray, lightning silent in the distance.
Beside him, Eryn whispered, "It's starting."
"No," Auren said quietly. "It's already here."
And somewhere beyond the trees, in the bleeding shadow of the land, something stirred.