By the time they reached the surface, the once-still sky above the Maw had turned turbulent. Low clouds twisted like bruises across the heavens, streaked with hues of crimson and violet. The wind howled down from the mountains, carrying a metallic tang, thick with the scent of distant fire and old blood.
Duncan emerged from the crumbling stairway first, his cloak whipping behind him, the shard now fused into his arm glowing faintly through leather and skin. His boots crunched on the blackened frost, where the ground seemed to throb in time with his pulse.
Alra followed close, visibly shaken but alive. Kaelen climbed last, favoring his ribs, his armor scorched and one eye swollen shut, but his grip on his blade was still unyielding.
The rest of the squad — the survivors — waited by the camp perimeter. Their eyes lit up as the trio emerged, but the cheers died on their tongues when they saw Duncan.
Something about him was different. Not just the glow, not just the way the wind curved around him as if it feared his wrath. It was the silence behind his eyes. A heavy silence, like a general returning from a war the rest of them hadn't seen.
"We're leaving," Duncan said. "There's nothing left to hold here."
One of the soldiers, Corporal Tarren, stepped forward. "Sir, what was that rumble? The mountain trembled like the gods were stirring."
"They were," Duncan said flatly.
He turned and looked out over the valley. From this height, the distant plains seemed eerily calm, but faint streaks of smoke rose from the eastern ridges. More disturbances. More Vaults… or worse.
Kaelen moved beside him. "You said you knew where the next one was."
"South," Duncan replied. "Beyond the Ironwood Marshes. A ruin called Drehlspire."
Kaelen frowned. "That's deep into frontier territory. Half a dozen rebel warbands operate there."
"All the better," Duncan muttered. "Let them learn what real power looks like."
Alra cleared her throat. "Before we go running into another crypt of ancient nightmares, maybe we should debrief the generals. Let command know what we found."
"They won't believe it," Kaelen said. "They barely believed in the Maw, and now that it's broken…"
"They'll believe what I show them," Duncan said. "But I won't wait for their permission."
That silenced them. Even Kaelen didn't protest. The truth was, they all knew Duncan was no longer just a lieutenant in the King's conscription force. Something had shifted — in his blood, in his bearing.
The shard had marked him.
He was becoming something else entirely.
Two days later, they reached Fort Halbridge — a battered stronghold on the border between loyalist lands and the untamed frontier. News of their return had arrived before them, carried by a swift-winged courier. The fortress gates swung open to receive them, and Commander Levrick — an aging warhound with a scar running from brow to chin — greeted them on the ramparts.
"You return from the dead," Levrick grunted as Duncan dismounted.
"We dug deeper than the dead," Duncan replied. "And we woke what sleeps beneath them."
Levrick narrowed his eyes. "Care to explain what that means?"
Duncan didn't smile. "Not here."
They gathered in the war room. Maps lined the walls, and the scent of old parchment and steel filled the air. Duncan detailed everything — the descent into the Maw, the cocoon, the manifestation of his father's essence, and the transformation wrought by the shard. He didn't embellish. He didn't need to. The horror and awe in his words were real enough.
Levrick listened without interruption. Only when Duncan finished did the old man speak.
"If what you say is true… the Dominion wasn't destroyed. It was buried. Piece by piece."
"And it's waking up," Duncan said. "One Vault at a time."
Levrick exhaled slowly. "This goes beyond the king. Beyond any throne. If these Vaults are real, and they still contain fragments of the old world…"
"They could either rebuild it," Duncan said, "or destroy what's left."
The room fell into silence.
Finally, Levrick stepped forward and placed a weathered hand on Duncan's shoulder.
"Then you'll need more than a squad and a sword," he said. "You'll need a Legion."
That night, Duncan stood on the fortress ramparts, watching the stars shift above the battlefield skies. Kaelen approached, arms folded, leaning against the stone beside him.
"You keep staring out like you're waiting for something."
"I am," Duncan said. "I'm waiting to feel normal again."
Kaelen gave a dry chuckle. "That ship's sailed, lad. You don't get to come back from what you did and be normal. Not anymore."
Duncan was silent for a time.
Then he turned. "Will you follow me? Even if command turns against us? Even if the king calls me traitor for chasing old ghosts?"
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked up at the stars — brighter now, as if the sky had changed since the Maw cracked open.
Then he nodded. "Your father led men into hell because he believed in something greater. You've got that same look. I'll follow. Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"When the time comes… if whatever's inside you turns dark — if the shard wins — don't make me chase you down."
Duncan met his gaze. "You won't have to. I'll put myself down before that happens."
Kaelen gave a short nod and walked away, his boots echoing softly against the stone.
Duncan remained.
Beneath his skin, the shard pulsed. It spoke in dreams now — not with words, but with images. Doors beneath oceans. Spires that touched the void. Vaults that bled red light.
And one phrase burned louder than the rest:
Reclaim the Dominion. Or be consumed by it.