The storm broke at dawn.
Clouds peeled away like torn cloth, revealing an orange-streaked sky. The wind that had howled through Drehlspire's crumbling spires now whispered along its battlements, calm and strange—almost reverent. Below, the snowfields of the Maw shimmered, not with ice, but with veins of faint bluish glow—leyfire creeping back into the world.
Duncan stood on the topmost parapet, gazing at the horizon. His eyes were sharp, his stance straighter than ever, the Oathbound Bow slung across his back. Beside him crouched Tharn, the silver-plated drake, its massive wings folded like sleeping blades.
For the first time since taking the fortress, Duncan felt seen. Not by the soldiers, not even by the beast—but by the mountain itself.
Alra approached silently from the stairwell. Her armor bore fresh scratches from drilling the troops through the night. "They're forming squads now—eight platoons, three ready to scout deeper valleys. Gorran's established signals with the southern ridge, and Vorr's repairing the inner lifts."
Duncan nodded, silent.
She studied him. "You're thinking about the signal we received."
"Yes." He clenched his jaw. "No other Dominion beacon should be functional. We've seen no signs of life for leagues. Yet someone lit a flare two ridges east. Not corrupted. Not beast-born. Structured. Like an old command signal."
"You think it's another garrison?"
He turned to her. "I think it's a remnant."
Alra's brows furrowed. "Of what?"
He faced the eastern range, where sharp peaks cut into the sky like a giant's broken teeth.
"The Sentinel's Pact."
She froze. "That's a myth."
"No," he said. "It's our legacy. Or at least... what's left of it."
Three hours later, Duncan rode Tharn across the broken skies, accompanied by Alra, Gorran, Vorr, and twenty elite soldiers. The drake's wings thundered across the morning silence, sending ripples through the clouds. Each beat of its wings resonated through Duncan's body like a second pulse. He was beginning to feel not just bonded—but merged.
Beneath them, the valley twisted with old battle scars—charred trenches, broken siege wheels, and massive bones half-buried in frost. But it was farther east, near a ravine lined with blackened pines, where they saw it.
A column of smoke. Controlled. Grey.
Duncan motioned, and Tharn dove low.
The ridge narrowed into a plateau—ancient walls crumbled under snowdrift, yet the structure beneath bore the unmistakable outline of a Dominion watchtower. A few surviving banners flapped in the wind—white on grey, the mark of the Sentinel Pact: a sword bisecting a mountain peak.
They landed on the outer ring.
A figure stepped forward from behind a rusted ballista.
A woman—tall, cloaked in furs, her eyes like chipped obsidian. Her hair was shaved on the sides, Dominion braids down the back. She carried no visible weapon—but the way she stood, Duncan knew she was not only trained—but dangerous.
Her voice was dry, sharp. "Identify yourself."
"Commander Duncan of the 7th Battalion," he said, stepping forward. "Bearer of the Oathbound Bow, Warden of Drehlspire."
Something in her expression shifted—shock, disbelief, then wary respect. "The 7th fell two generations ago."
"So did the Pact," Duncan said. "Yet here we are."
A moment of silence stretched between them.
Then she nodded. "I am Ashryn. Last surviving Sentinel of Highmoor Post. We've held this position for nineteen years with thirteen warriors, using old protocols and ancient stores. We kept the fire lit. For this."
She motioned toward the flare basin—a deep stone trough, smoldering.
Alra stepped forward, stunned. "You've survived this long with no command, no supply lines?"
Ashryn smirked faintly. "Survived? We endured. There's a difference."
Behind her, more figures emerged—soldiers in piecemeal armor, some with handmade weapons, some with Dominion-forged blades polished to gleam. They stood straight. Disciplined. The Pact had not merely clung to life—they had held the line.
Duncan bowed. "Then perhaps it's time the Pact rejoined the Dominion."
Ashryn studied him. "And what Dominion is that? The capital fell. The central bastion is in ruins. The command line is broken."
"We rebuild it," Duncan said. "Starting here. Starting now."
She stared at him for a long moment—then extended her arm.
"Then I give you my sword, Commander."
They clasped wrists, and the old oath was reborn.
That night, the Pact and the Seventh shared fires and food—stories passed between generations of warriors thought lost. Maps were unrolled. Secret trails, forgotten caches, and still-functional leyfire routes were uncovered.
But deep beneath the plateau, in an old listening chamber hidden behind a vault door marked in ancient runes, Duncan stood alone with Ashryn. A console—half-runed, half-mechanical—still pulsed with a weak glow.
"I never could unlock it fully," she said. "It's keyed to the Oath line. Blood-born access."
Duncan approached the stone panel, laying his palm against the central rune. The bow across his back pulsed.
The console lit.
A voice whispered out of the stone.
"Oathbearer recognized. Status: fragmentary. Beacon signal intercepted. Origin: Obsidian Vault."
Ashryn flinched. "Obsidian Vault? That's—impossible. It was sealed after the Corpsefire Rebellion."
Duncan's face went cold.
"If it's active again… someone opened it."
The console whispered again.
"Warning: Vault signal repeating ancient command protocol. Awakening protocols… initiated."
The stone shivered beneath their feet.
Something old had been disturbed.
And the dominion of the Ironwild was no longer sleeping.
It was waking up.
And not everything that woke would be an ally.