The horns sounded at dawn, low and drawn out, vibrating through Fort Thorne like the growl of a waking mountain.
Duncan stood at the ramparts, watching as a column of soldiers emerged from the mist-choked path below. They marched in perfect unison—silent, armored in silver-black plate, shields bearing the imperial wyvern crest. Their commander rode at the head, his presence unnerving even from a distance.
General Maeron.
They called him the Quiet General not for lack of speech, but because he rarely needed to speak twice. Every war he entered ended swiftly. Either with the enemy buried… or his own men.
Kael joined Duncan, eyes narrowing.
"He doesn't ride like a politician."
"He's not," Duncan replied. "He's the Emperor's blade."
As the army drew closer, Brannoc muttered, "And now he's pointing that blade at us."
Arrival and Omen
General Maeron dismounted before the gates without a word.
A young adjutant stepped forward, presenting a sealed scroll. The wax bore the Imperial Sigil—an ouroboros coiled around a broken chain.
Duncan broke the seal and read.
Commander Duncan Blackvale,
By order of His Majesty the Iron Sovereign,
you are hereby granted temporary Field Autonomy and elevated rank as Regional Tribune of the Wildfront. You will continue to command Fort Thorne and its surrounding operations until reviewed.
General Maeron is assigned to evaluate your leadership, confirm your loyalty, and execute necessary corrections.
Duncan blinked.
"…They promoted me," he muttered.
Kael leaned over his shoulder. "Field Autonomy. That's basically open license."
Brannoc snorted. "And the Quiet General standing behind you with a knife."
The General Speaks
Maeron finally entered the war hall. He was tall, lean, with close-cropped iron hair and sharp features. His armor was pristine. Not a speck of blood, despite decades of war.
He studied Duncan in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—almost a whisper—but carried through the stone like thunder.
"You're young."
Duncan didn't flinch. "I'm also alive."
"Unusual combination out here," Maeron said, taking a seat without invitation.
Brannoc and Kael stood behind Duncan, tense as coiled springs.
Maeron laid out a folded map.
"The Emperor believes there is something beneath Fort Thorne," he said. "Ancient, buried, dangerous."
Duncan kept his face unreadable.
"And you?" he asked.
"I don't believe," Maeron replied. "I know."
A Hidden Agenda
They poured over the map.
New survey lines. Tunnels Duncan hadn't seen. Sections of the pass marked with imperial glyphs only decipherable by high command.
Maeron tapped one area in particular—a region Duncan hadn't explored yet, beyond the ridge where the corrupted boar had emerged.
"Activity. Faint energy pulses. Your crypts are only one layer."
"You knew about them?" Duncan asked.
"I've known longer than you've worn that sword," Maeron replied. "You just had the audacity to open the door."
He leaned in.
"The Emperor wants answers. Not heresy. Not cults. Not half-truths. Find the truth, Tribune… before it finds you."
Duncan's Gamble
That night, Duncan stood alone on the overlook behind the fort, the medallion around his neck glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Field Autonomy was both shield and noose. He could act without oversight—but if he failed, there would be no appeals. No excuses. Only silence.
Kael joined him, her expression unreadable.
"You trust him?" she asked.
"No."
"But you're going to work with him."
"I don't have a choice."
She glanced at the medallion. "And the thing under the fort?"
"It's not done with us yet."
A Message in Blood
At dawn, a scout returned.
He was barely breathing, riding a half-dead elk, eyes wild.
"They're coming," he gasped. "From the east. A whole pack. Something—wrong—with them."
Duncan caught him before he collapsed.
"Who?"
The scout coughed blood. "Beasts… walking on two legs. Wearing… bones."
Duncan stiffened. Kael cursed.
Maeron arrived moments later, reading the scout like a war map.
"They've stirred it," the General said softly. "The true heart of the Wildfront."
Duncan looked toward the horizon, where mist curled like smoke, and shadows moved behind the trees.
Not summoned beasts.
Not allies.
Not sane.
Something old was waking.