The next morning, Fort Halbridge woke to a sky painted in fire-orange hues. Smoke drifted lazily across the horizon, not from battle or sabotage — but from the smoldering remnants of a wildbeast herd stampeding through the lower valley. The air had grown tense, expectant, as if the land itself knew something long buried was rising.
Duncan stood in the fortress courtyard, armor strapped on, his lance resting against his shoulder. His men — those who had survived the Maw — were being refitted and resupplied, forming into ranks beside newly assigned soldiers from Halbridge. A hundred strong now. Not enough for war, but enough to carve a path toward Drehlspire.
But before they could march, a messenger arrived.
Not on horseback, not on wings — but on foot. Cloaked in bone-gray robes, with skin pale as frost and eyes like river ice, the stranger approached with no guards, no weapons… only a silver token, etched with the symbol of the Third Oath — an ancient, outlawed covenant.
The fortress guard moved to intercept him. Duncan raised a hand.
"Let him through."
The man bowed his head as he approached. "I come as an Emissary of the Reclaimed. We felt the tremor at the Maw. The seal has cracked."
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "You know of the Vaults?"
The Emissary nodded. "We are their descendants. Their stewards. When the Dominion fell, not all perished. Some… adapted. We carry their knowledge. Their blood."
Kaelen, standing nearby, scoffed. "You claim you're a Dominion remnant. Then where were you when the beast tides drowned the north? When the king's banners burned in the frost cities?"
"We watched," the Emissary said calmly. "Because we had no choice. Until now."
Duncan stepped forward. "What do you want?"
The Emissary held up a silver scroll, bound in black cord. "A bargain."
Duncan took the scroll, unfurling it slowly. Inside were detailed schematics — vault structures, celestial alignments, artifact traces — things no outsider should possess. At the bottom, written in the ancient Dominion tongue, was a single sentence:
Let the Shard-Bearer come to the Spire of Truth. Alone.
Duncan looked up sharply. "You want me to walk into a ruin alone?"
"No traps. No ambushes," the Emissary said. "The Spire is a sanctuary of memory. The last place where truth can be spoken unbound. Bring your doubts. Bring your shard. We will show you what the Dominion truly was."
Alra stepped beside Duncan, her voice hard. "And if he doesn't return?"
The Emissary turned his pale eyes toward her. "Then the future ends before it begins."
That evening, Duncan stood before Levrick and the war council. The room buzzed with protests.
"It's a trap," one officer snarled. "The Dominion is dead — let it rot!"
"You don't walk into a rogue faction's sanctum alone," another barked.
But Duncan didn't flinch. "We need answers. The Vaults are real. We cracked one. There are more — and we don't know what they'll unleash."
"They won't unleash anything," Levrick growled. "Not if we collapse them before they awaken."
Duncan met the old commander's eyes. "You really believe that'll work? We tried sealing the Maw. It fought back. It's not just ancient tech or wild magic — it's alive."
Levrick was silent.
Finally, he exhaled. "If you go, I can't send a force with you. The king's eyes are already watching Halbridge. If this 'Emissary' speaks true, then the Reclaimed are a threat to the balance. To the crown."
"I understand," Duncan said.
Levrick nodded slowly. "Then go. But know this — if you don't return, I'll bury the spire in fire. Whether it holds truth or not."
By moonrise, Duncan rode out alone.
No escort. No banner.
Only his weapon, the shard embedded in his arm, and the silent promise of vengeance still burning behind his eyes.
He traveled southeast through broken valleys and skeletal forests. Days passed. He crossed paths with strange creatures — beasts with obsidian fur and six eyes, born from lands twisted by dormant Vault energy. He felled two and spared another, watching how they seemed drawn to him, sensing the shard's resonance.
On the fourth night, he arrived at the edge of a canyon carved not by water, but by something else — a precise, artificial cleft in the earth, as if a blade from the stars had cut it in two. At its center stood a spire of stone and steel, wrapped in vines and bone carvings — ancient, terrible, beautiful.
The Spire of Truth.
The Emissary waited at its base.
"You came."
"Show me," Duncan said.
They entered.
Inside, the walls pulsed with memory. Not magic — but memory. Holograms shimmered and played out across the chamber — visions of the old Dominion, not as conquerors, but as wardens. Protectors of a world that had once been on the edge of cosmic invasion. Beasts had not always been the enemy. Once, they had been guardians, created in symbiosis with the first shardbearers.
But something had gone wrong.
The Vaults were not prisons. They were eggs — birthing chambers for weapons of sentience and soul. When the Dominion collapsed, the eggs were locked away, scattered, sealed — until the signs returned. Until someone could claim the shards and remake the bond.
"You were chosen," the Emissary said. "Not by the shard, but by your blood. Your line stretches back to the first shardbearers. Your father knew. Your grandfather, too."
"Then why didn't they tell me?" Duncan asked, voice tight.
"Because the truth comes with a burden. One few survive."
Duncan clenched his fists. "And if I reject it?"
The Emissary looked him in the eyes. "Then the world will fall. The beasts will awaken wild, without guidance. The Vaults will open unchecked. And what lies beneath them will rise."
A pause.
Duncan looked up at the swirling visions above — not just beasts and weapons, but something older, darker, tethered in chains forged from stars.
"What lies beneath?" he whispered.
The Emissary's voice was barely audible.
"The Hollow King."