Aden stood on the edge of a low cliff, just outside the makeshift camp nestled beneath the withered boughs of bone-colored trees. Below, the valley opened into a flat stretch of land scorched black by old magic — too regular to be natural, too empty to be ignored.
Behind him, the camp stirred with life: soldiers reinforcing barricades, mages reattuning ward crystals, scouts reporting the twitch of shadows they couldn't explain. The Twelfth Pillar wasn't at ease, not even close.
"You're doing that brooding thing again," Egmund said, appearing beside him in that casual flicker of smoke and ember. He crossed his arms, leaning against the air like it was solid. "Ten seconds away from folding into a monologue about fate, war, or whatever doom you think we're walking into."
Aden didn't bother looking at him. "Maybe if you didn't talk so much, I'd have the time for a monologue."
Egmund grinned, fangs poking out. "That's cold, boss. Brutal, even."
Silence stretched between them, but not an uncomfortable one. Below the horizon, the sky rippled — not with light, but pressure. Something ancient stirred beyond the hills. Aden felt it in his bones.
"I need your thoughts on the Ash-Sworn," he finally said.
Egmund's ears perked, theatrically interested. "Ah, the infamous merc squad. Bunch of elite nutcases, right? Blood-soaked contracts, no moral compass, take your coin and someone's head for breakfast?"
"They're not just killers," Aden said quietly. "They're professionals. When the novel mentioned them, they were a turning point. The protagonist tried to fight them first. and joined hands with their boss. Then he hired them—and they won him three provinces."
Egmund gave a low whistle. "So you're saying we skip the getting-our-guts-kicked part and go straight to the friendly handshake?"
"If they let me," Aden muttered. "They're somewhere in the Disputed Zone—likely heading toward the Lich settlement. Probably after the rune stones."
"Wait, so they want the rocks too?" Egmund asked. "Guess we're all grave robbers now."
Aden folded his arms, his mind already five moves ahead. "If the Ash-Sworn get to the runes first, they might sell them to a rival power. That's a problem. But if I make them see me as the winning side…"
Egmund arched a brow. "And what's the pitch, huh? 'Hey guys, I'm Aden Vasco, part-time noble, full-time vessel for hellspawn. Fancy teaming up?'"
Aden gave him a look. "You're not the selling point."
"Well, I should be," Egmund muttered. "I bring charm, sass, and internal commentary."
His voice turned more thoughtful a beat later. "So, you thinking diplomacy, or… domination?"
Aden's gaze drifted across the black hills. "Depends how they greet us. I'd rather offer terms. If not—"
"Break bones until they see reason," Egmund finished. "Classic."
The cold wind picked up, scattering loose ash from the trees around them. It settled on Aden's shoulders like snow, dark and weightless.
Behind them, a lieutenant approached — one of the newer ones. Saluted crisply. "Commander, the scouts confirm movement to the northeast. Looks like a supply column. No insignias."
"That's them," Aden said, turning. "Prepare a contact party. No aggression unless they make the first move."
"Yes, Commander."
The soldier hurried off, and Aden stared at the darkening sky again. The longer he watched, the more it felt like time had slowed — or like the land itself was waiting for something. Not a storm. Not a war. Something worse.
"They'll test us," he said aloud. "Everyone does."
Egmund looked at him. "You're still thinking about the soldiers who doubted you."
Aden didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He remembered their faces — the wary glances, the whispered comparisons to the former Twelfth Pillar. No one said it out loud, but he felt it in the way they watched him. Like they were waiting for him to fail.
He wouldn't.
"I need the Ash-Sworn on my side before the Liches escalate," Aden said, turning away. "I won't let this army crumble to suspicion and fear."
Egmund followed, his tone unusually sincere. "Then let's make some mercenary friends before the bone freaks crawl out of the fog."
As they walked back into the camp, the wardlights flickered — not from energy loss, but interference. Something magical brushed against the barrier, just enough to sting the air. A reminder.
They weren't alone anymore.
From the darkness beyond the hills, unseen eyes watched the camp.
Not human. Not mercenary. And not undead, either.
Something else — something old — had awakened.
And it was hungry.