The broken gates of Drehlspire yawned like a mouth too long shut. Fangs of frost hung from twisted iron, and the hinges screamed like dying men as Duncan pushed them open with the flat of his spear. Beyond lay a vast courtyard, blanketed in ice and snow, littered with bones—some human, some not.
The air was wrong here. Heavy. Saturated with whispers that crawled under the skin and scratched at the base of the skull. Duncan had heard them before—back at the Maw, in the dark beneath Halbridge. But here, they were louder. Bolder. As if the Spire itself remembered his bloodline and was calling to him.
The soldiers behind him fanned out cautiously, weapons drawn. Gorran led the Ashlances through the left flank, while Alra and the vanguard swept right. Duncan stepped forward, alone, toward the blackened spire base.
A rusted bell tower rose above him, half-collapsed. Banners of the Old Dominion still hung in tatters—sigils burned and twisted into unrecognizable symbols. This place had once been the seat of a Lord-Militant, one of the great tacticians who shaped the empire's war machines. But no records remained of Drehlspire's fall. Only silence and myth.
As Duncan crossed the ice, he passed a series of shallow graves—each marked with Dominion seal-tags hammered into frozen stones. The names were worn away. But one stone had a mark that made him stop.
It was the same crescent-claw insignia carved into his family's heirloom bow.
He knelt.
The tag had no name, just a rank: Commander of the 7th Furnace Legion.
Alra approached quietly behind him. "Someone you knew?"
He shook his head. "No. But someone my blood knew."
She studied him a moment, then turned her gaze to the crumbled spire tower. "Scouts report no movement inside. No sign of the wyvern's corruption spreading. But the ice under the structure is unnatural. Too thick. Too… fresh."
"Vault-frost," Duncan muttered. "Same pattern as the Maw. But colder."
She nodded. "Colder, and older."
He rose and gestured to the others. "We clear the spire. Floor by floor. Nobody splits off. And no one touches any relic without my order. If this place was a Vault crucible, it'll have traps designed to bait soldiers."
As they pushed deeper into the fortress, the air grew colder, but also thinner—like the stones themselves were leeching the life out of them. The inner halls were lined with shattered armor suits and mural fragments. Much had been destroyed by frost collapse or wild beasts, but some frescoes remained intact. They showed enormous battles: soldiers wielding bows made of bone and siege crossbows the size of ballistae. Some images showed Dominion commanders taming wild beasts, though not through summoning—but through raw domination, sheer force of will.
"This one," Alra murmured, pointing to a worn painting of a man with Duncan's eyes standing atop a ridge of corpses, "looks like it could be your ancestor."
Duncan's jaw tightened. "Maybe it is."
Then they found the stairs leading down.
The stone beneath the spire had split open long ago. Something vast had clawed its way out—or in. The staircase spiraled into a pit rimmed with frozen glyphs. The deeper they went, the more their breath fogged their helmets. Eventually, the temperature dropped so low that their armor creaked from contraction.
And then the light changed.
What had been torchlight above became blue and pulsing—reflected from a chamber of frost-crystal ahead. Duncan raised a fist. The soldiers halted.
Only he and Alra moved forward.
At the bottom of the stair, they stepped into a sanctum. It was circular. Lined with vault-steel pillars covered in runes. In the center stood a pedestal made of black stone.
Upon it lay a bow.
It wasn't his heirloom.
It was… older.
And larger.
Its curve was fashioned from darkwood veined with silver, and its string shimmered as if woven from threads of moonlight. Around the pedestal, beast bones circled like wards—massive ribs, cracked skulls, shattered fangs. They radiated pressure. Raw dominance.
Alra whispered, "That's not just a weapon. That's a relic."
Duncan took a cautious step closer. The whispers in the room thickened. Not random anymore—focused. Calling his name.
Duncan… heir of claw…
He reached out, but didn't touch it yet. "It's sentient."
Alra frowned. "Alive?"
"In some way." He looked at her. "Get the others out. I'll take it alone."
She hesitated.
He didn't waver.
She turned and left.
Duncan stood alone with the relic bow. The pressure in the air deepened. His vision swam. The glyphs on the wall flared—and then, a pulse.
A voice boomed—not in sound, but inside him.
"Dominion-blood… broken heir… you awaken the Binding."
The bow rose of its own accord. Hovered before him.
Duncan gritted his teeth. "Who are you?"
"I am what your forebears sealed… I am the Beastwrought Oath… the weapon of Kings."
Images flooded his mind—his ancestor, the one in the fresco, wielding this bow atop the backs of wild crystal beasts. Then that same ancestor being devoured by them when he faltered.
"You're not a weapon," Duncan breathed. "You're a test."
"I am judgment. And you… are chosen."
The bow surged forward—and slammed into his chest.
A blinding light filled the room.
Then darkness.
When he came to, the bow was in his hands.
The chamber was silent.
And a new mark glowed on his skin—just above his heart. A clawed crescent surrounded by chained runes.
Alra and the soldiers burst in, weapons drawn. But stopped when they saw him.
He stood in the center of the room.
Alive.
Changed.
"I have it," he said. His voice echoed with something deeper. "The Oathbound Bow. It's mine now."
Alra nodded once. "Then what now?"
Duncan looked toward the spiral stairs. "Now we climb. We rebuild Drehlspire. This is no longer a ruin."
He stepped forward, the bow humming in his grasp.
"This is our new fortress."