Dawn broke over the fractured peaks as the caravan rumbled away from the base of the Spire. Duncan stood atop a supply wagon, his cloak snapping in the wind, eyes fixed southeast toward Drehlspire—once a fortress of the old Dominion, now a corrupted ruin crawling with wild beasts and worse. They said the land around it burned with unnatural frost, and that the wind sometimes sang the old war chants of the Dominion, though no mouth sang them.
Behind him, two hundred soldiers marched in grim silence. These weren't conscripts. These were veterans—Ironbacks, Blackstones, Ashlances—men and women hardened by bloodshed. And leading them, by decree of General Kaelen and under the flag of Fort Halbridge, was Duncan.
He still wasn't used to the weight of command. Orders came easily enough in battle, but now every step, every delay, every dying soldier—those would be his responsibility.
They'd been marching for three days across the Iron Scar—a vast ravine-laced region that once separated the inner Dominion from the wild southern ranges. Strange rocks jutted from the earth like broken fingers, and ancient steel ruins slumped half-buried in black grass. This place had once been alive with power—now it reeked of something lost.
Alra rode beside him on a sleek hill ram, her armor now trimmed with the colors of the command echelon. She had refused any title, but everyone called her "Commander's shadow." She acted as his second, and her presence was his anchor.
"Scouts report heavy tracks ahead," she said, glancing up from a map scroll. "Something big crossed into the canyon pass two nights ago. Crushed rock underfoot. No claws, no hooves."
Duncan frowned. "Vault-born?"
"Could be. Or something older. This region used to be riddled with Dominion test nests. Who knows what never made it to the warfront?"
He thought of the Hollow King's vision. The bone-crowned shapes moving through ashlight, whispering to themselves. "Double the forward scouts," he ordered. "And pull the Ashlances into tighter formation near the ridge. If something's watching, I want our biggest firepower ready."
She nodded and spurred her mount forward.
They pressed on, winding through a series of narrow ravines. Old Dominion outposts littered the cliffs—stone turrets shaped like leaning fangs, each one scarred with centuries of weather and fire. Duncan paused the march twice to inspect them. In one, they found an ossuary sealed with waxen glyphs. In another, a faded mural showing a knight in shattered armor casting a spear of light into a canyon filled with eyes.
By dusk, they reached the lip of a wide gorge.
Beyond it lay Drehlspire.
Duncan climbed the nearest ridge for a better view. From this height, he could see it—a fortress of pale stone and black iron, looming on a plateau of cracked ice. The spire itself stood broken, like a snapped blade, its top section scattered across the outer walls. But the thing that chilled him wasn't the ruin—it was what circled above it.
A shape.
Massive.
Wings like torn banners. A body bristling with crystalline growths. And eyes—six of them—burning with cold light.
A frost wyvern. But… wrong. Twisted. Vault-altered.
He turned to the Ashlance captain, a man named Gorran, scarred from shoulder to jaw. "Can your crew bring that thing down?"
Gorran spat. "If it doesn't fly too high. Ballistas can punch through wyvern scale—but only if we land clean."
"We don't land clean," Duncan said, "then we don't land at all. Set the crews. I want those siege units anchored by nightfall."
That night, the camp sat silent under a sky full of violet stars. Duncan stood at the map table, flanked by Alra, Gorran, and two scout leaders. They reviewed the terrain—a narrow ice bridge was the only way to Drehlspire, unless they tried to cross the chasm's broken edges. Too risky. The bridge was their shot.
"And the wyvern?" Alra asked.
Duncan looked toward the Spire. "We draw it in. Bait it with torch columns and noise. When it descends, we hit it with coordinated fire. Ashlances on high ground, crossbows staggered. If we're lucky, we ground it."
"And if we're not lucky?" one scout asked.
Duncan didn't flinch. "Then we bleed until someone gets lucky."
A hush fell over the table.
"We move at first light," Duncan finished. "I'll lead the vanguard."
Alra opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. She knew he wouldn't let others die ahead of him. Not again.
Morning came wrapped in frost.
The sun rose behind thin clouds as Duncan led the first charge across the ice bridge. His bow was slung across his back, a long curved yew bow carved with his family's mark—a crescent within a claw. His spear gleamed with fresh polish, its edge whispering in the wind.
They crossed slowly, the ice groaning beneath their feet. Then, halfway across—
A scream.
The wyvern dove from the clouds, shrieking like a storm of ice. Its wings beat once—twice—and a wave of frost crashed down on the bridge. Men screamed. Ice shattered.
Duncan raised his hand. "Now!"
Ballistas fired. Ashlances unleashed blinding bolts of white fire. The wyvern shrieked again, one wing torn by a bolt. It spiraled, crashed into the far wall of the chasm, and rose—limping, but alive.
Duncan charged.
He leapt over fallen men, sprinted across splintering ice, and hurled his spear. It struck the wyvern's flank—deep, but not killing. The beast turned, tail sweeping.
He ducked, rolled beneath the blow, and drew his blade.
The wyvern reared, jaws wide.
And Alra struck from above—landing atop its neck with a scream, driving twin daggers into the softer crystal seams behind its skull.
The beast thrashed, roared—
Then fell.
The ice bridge groaned again, cracked.
Duncan shouted, "Move! Off the ice!"
They scrambled, dragging the wounded.
As they reached the far side, the bridge collapsed behind them.
Silence.
Drehlspire stood before them, gates yawning open.
Duncan turned to his soldiers, blood on his blade, breath steaming.
"This," he said, voice low, "is where it begins."