Three nights after Hollowpine Valley, the stars above Fort Thorne refused to shine.
A chill wind swept through the fortress, tugging at rusted chains and hollow windows. The torches sputtered, casting strange shadows across the stone walls—shadows that moved even when no one did.
Duncan sat alone at the war table, the beastbone medallion resting at the center of a faded Dominion map. Every now and then, he'd reach out and touch it, as though verifying it still existed. The heat it radiated hadn't faded. If anything, it burned hotter.
A memory stirred, unbidden: the Warden's voice echoing in his skull.
"You carry what was forbidden…"
He didn't understand it—not fully—but he could feel the change taking root inside him. His heartbeat was steadier. His vision sharper. The sounds of the forest clearer, even from inside stone walls.
He wasn't becoming something new.
He was becoming something forgotten.
The Message
Brannoc burst into the chamber, his face pale, a scroll clutched in his gauntlet.
"It's begun."
He unrolled the scroll across the table. It was thick parchment, written in charcoal, stamped with a bloody pawprint.
To the Falseblood who dares wear the Warden's signet.
You walk with bones you do not own.
You speak in names you do not bear.
The Pact is not yours.
The Beast Throne shall rise for only one.
I, the Antlered Son, lay claim to the Wildblood Right. And I mark you for death.
There was no signature. Just a single glyph etched at the bottom—an eye pierced by a thorn.
Brannoc exhaled. "That symbol. I've seen it in the Eastern hollows. Cult banners. It's a splinter faction—the Thornborn Circle. They worship only the ancient bloodlines. No Dominion. No compromise."
Duncan leaned forward. "He calls himself the 'Antlered Son'..."
Kael stepped in from the door, bow over her shoulder.
"There are whispers in the wind," she said. "Runners from the beast cults speak of him gathering the tribes. Hundreds of wildborn, disgraced scouts, and hollow-marked warriors. He wears a mask made of Warden bone. Claims the forest sings only to him."
Duncan's jaw tightened.
"A pretender. Dangerous one."
Kael gave a half-smile. "The dangerous ones always believe they're chosen."
The Assembly
By morning, Duncan had summoned every soul in Fort Thorne to the courtyard. Rain fell in misty sheets. The garrison, still bruised and skeptical, gathered anyway.
He stood atop the battlements, the beastbone medallion glinting faintly against his chest.
"You've all heard the whispers," he began. "There's a man in the forest calling himself the heir to the Wildblood Throne. Claims dominion over the Hollow. Says I wear a crown that isn't mine."
He paused, letting his voice cut through the rain.
"I don't care for thrones. Or crowns. Or bloodlines."
He unsheathed his sword and drove it into the stone rampart beside him.
"I care about survival. About holding this wall. About building something stronger than fear."
He looked across the crowd.
"If he wants my head, he'll find it waiting—with a blade beside it."
A slow rumble of assent rolled through the courtyard.
For the first time since arriving, Duncan saw belief flicker in their eyes.
The Iron Hunt Begins
Scouts returned by dusk. The Thornborn Circle had been seen moving through Hollowpine's eastern edge—ritual fires lit, animal sacrifices strung in the trees. The Antlered Son's army wasn't subtle.
They wanted to be found.
Duncan drew a simple conclusion.
"If he wants to be seen," he said, "then we don't wait for an attack. We strike first."
Brannoc raised a brow. "Assault the Circle's war camp? With seventy troops and half a working ballista?"
Duncan nodded. "Not an assault. A hunt. Quiet. Surgical. We cut off the head before the army moves."
Kael smirked. "You're proposing a Warden Hunt."
"No," Duncan said. "I'm proposing an execution."
The Masked One
Two nights later, under a crescent moon, Duncan and a handpicked team moved through the ruins of Hollowpine East.
They found the camp easily—dozens of bone tents, beast pelts stretched into banners, and a central pyre built from scavenged Dominion shields. Chanting rose from the center, a low hum that made the trees tremble.
There, on a stone altar, stood the Antlered Son.
His body was bare to the waist, covered in red-ink runes. A skeletal mask shaped like a stag's skull obscured his face. Around his neck hung a string of sharpened beast teeth. In one hand, he held a staff of woven sinew. In the other—a Dominion officer's insignia.
Duncan's insignia.
Kael whispered, "He's taunting you."
Duncan rose from the brush.
"No more taunts."
He stepped into the firelight.
The chants stopped.
The masked man turned.
"So the Falseblood comes," he said, voice echoing through the mask. "Do you dream of the old songs, boy? The ones buried beneath your skin?"
Duncan drew his blade.
"I dream of burning them."