The fire roared within the war-forge chambers of Drehlspire, casting fierce orange arcs across the vaulted stone walls. Sparks flew with each hammer strike, and the clangor of reforging echoed like the heartbeats of a reborn giant. Duncan stood at the heart of the ancient furnace hall, watching the smiths of the 7th Battalion work under torchlight and steam. They were reforging not just weapons—but a symbol.
The Spire was no longer silent.
It was alive.
And the soldiers within it were changing, too.
Alra strode in, her cloak slick with frost, snow melting in droplets down her armored shoulders. "The outer ramparts are sealed. Gorran has the northern overlook cleared of bone clusters. Whatever made this place into a grave, it's long gone—or dormant."
Duncan nodded, eyes still locked on the obsidian blade being shaped on the anvil. "We won't wait for it to wake again. We prepare."
The Oathbound Bow hung across his back, humming faintly, as if pulsing with a heartbeat of its own. Since binding with it, Duncan had felt… more. Not just stronger—sharper. His instincts had deepened. He could sense the subtle tensions in the mountain wind, smell the traces of beasts hiding beyond the ridgelines, and even hear the footfalls of soldiers in corridors three floors above.
More than that, he could feel the ancient paths of the Dominion awakening beneath Drehlspire.
Alra watched him carefully. "You haven't slept since the Binding. You've been speaking to the stone. And the fire. What's going on with you, Duncan?"
He turned to her slowly. "This fortress isn't dead. It was dormant. Like a beast in hibernation. The bow… it's connected to more than just the vault sanctum. It's attuned to the heart of Ironwild."
She frowned. "You mean the range?"
"No. I mean the mountain itself."
He stepped toward a wall where frost hadn't reached—where strange lines had begun etching themselves naturally into the stone, like veins glowing faintly. Runes. Ancient, buried, breathing with buried power.
"I think this place is one of the cores," Duncan murmured. "One of the six buried dominion anchors. Our ancestors built on them to harvest the leyfire and beast-flow. I thought they were myths."
"And now?"
He looked her in the eye. "Now I know they were warnings."
A sharp whistle echoed from above. Scout horns. Then came the pounding of boots—Soldier Vorr and three of the ridge-watch guards slid down the spiral stairway. "Commander! Incoming! Skybeast—two wings, fast—descending from the high thermals!"
Duncan's heart surged.
He didn't wait.
Bounding up the steps, he emerged onto the ice-slicked upper watch deck. The cold hit like a punch to the lungs. But his breath misted in even, calm clouds.
Beyond the spire's jagged ramparts, a shadow moved through the clouds—swift, graceful, vast. It was not one of the corrupted wyverns. Its wings were too smooth, its motion too precise. And unlike the shrieking corrupted, this one came in silence.
Duncan narrowed his eyes.
Alra appeared beside him. "A scout? A spy-beast?"
He reached for the Oathbound Bow. It unstrapped itself with a hum and came to his hand like it had always belonged there. His fingers wrapped around the leather grip, and he drew without an arrow—just will.
An arrow of light formed between his fingers, shaped by intent.
"No," Duncan said. "It's not a scout. It's a challenge."
The sky-beast shrieked, a long metallic sound, and folded its wings—diving toward the Spire with talons gleaming.
Soldiers scrambled to cover. Ballista crews turned their mounts skyward. But Duncan raised his hand.
"Hold."
The beast drew closer. And he saw it.
A silver-plated drake—not corrupted, not wild with madness—but wearing old Dominion war armor.
Alra's breath caught. "It's a bonded beast."
"No," Duncan whispered. "It's a loyal one."
The drake veered at the last moment, swooping around the tower in a spiral before alighting on the shattered rampart just meters from them. Ice cracked beneath its weight.
Its eyes met Duncan's.
They glowed faintly gold.
Then—something incredible.
It knelt.
Lowered its head.
Duncan stepped forward.
He heard the voice in his head—not from the bow—but from the beast itself.
"Son of the Broken Legion… heir of command… I have waited."
He stared. "What are you?"
The drake looked up.
"I was once named Tharn. War beast of Commander Vael. Guardian of the seventh line. I have returned to serve."
Duncan swallowed hard. "You knew my ancestor?"
"I was his mount… and his executioner. When he fell to arrogance and tried to command what should not be touched, I ended him. By his order."
Alra whispered, "It's a beast under a blood pact."
Duncan knelt, placing one hand on the frost-scaled snout.
Tharn breathed, long and low.
"You are not like him. You carry doubt… and purpose."
Duncan nodded. "Then rise. We have work to do."
The drake stood, and the soldiers erupted in awe and cheer.
For the first time in two centuries, Drehlspire had a bonded beast again.
By nightfall, word had spread.
The Spire was awake.
A relic weapon had chosen its bearer.
A war-beast of legend had returned.
And Duncan, the unwilling conscript whose name had once been forgotten, now bore the titles of Commander of Drehlspire, Oathbound Heir, and Beastmaster of the Frozen Watch.
But he knew the real trial was only beginning.
Far below, deep in the ice layers beneath the sanctum, something stirred—slow and ancient. It was not pleased that Duncan had awakened the Spire.
The Dominion's secrets did not sleep quietly.
And war was coming.