Chapter 308 — Fire and Iron
The night was heavy with mist as Rogan, Varik, and Zerathis crouched in the treeline, watching the first outpost. Wooden palisades rose against the moonlight, torches burning along the perimeter. The smell of smoke and sweat carried on the wind.
Slavers moved lazily along the walls, unaware of what was coming.
Rogan broke the silence, his deep voice calm but resolute.
"Remember Kael's words. We break their chains, but we give them the choice."
Varik smirked, checking the edge of his curved blade. "Chains first, choices later. Let's get to work."
Zerathis didn't answer right away. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, a predator's hunger in them, though not for blood — for purpose. Finally, he gave a sharp grin.
"Then let's see if Kael's trust in me was worth it."
The assault was swift and brutal.
Rogan led the charge, shield raised, smashing through the palisade gate like it was tinder. His mace cracked the first guard's skull before the man could shout. Varik slipped through the chaos like a shadow, blades flashing in the torchlight, cutting down slavers before they could rally.
And then Zerathis descended.
He leapt over the wall in a single bound, wings of shadowed flame unfurling from his back for the briefest instant before they vanished. His claws tore through the nearest slaver's chest, black fire erupting in the wound. Another fell screaming as Zerathis seized him by the throat and slammed him into the dirt hard enough to break bone.
The outpost was chaos in moments.
The slavers were hardened men, but they were not prepared for this storm. Rogan's shield was a wall, every blow returned with bone-breaking force. Varik darted between his bulk, slicing through tendons, throats, and arteries with merciless precision. Zerathis was everywhere at once, a daemon whirlwind, his gauntleted fist smashing through armor, his fangs dripping crimson.
It was over within minutes.
The slaves — humans, beastkin, and demihumans — cowered in their cages, eyes wide with terror. Some wept, thinking the daemon would devour them next.
But Rogan raised a hand, his voice carrying over the silent camp.
"Peace. You are free."
He and Varik smashed open the locks, pulling the terrified men and women from their chains. Zerathis stood nearby, silent but still, his crimson eyes burning.
One of the freed, a beastkin woman with scars on her wrists, whispered, "What… what will you do with us?"
Rogan glanced at Zerathis, then answered in a firm tone.
"You have a choice. Return to your homes, if you still have them. Or come with us — to the Hollow. There you'll find food, shelter, and freedom. The choice is yours."
The woman looked from Rogan to the blood-streaked daemon, and for a long moment, her fear warred with something else. Then she nodded. "I'll come."
Others followed. Some ran, vanishing into the night, desperate to return to their old lives. But more than a dozen chose the Hollow.
The next two outposts fell in much the same way, though the resistance grew fiercer each time.
At the second, the slavers had fortified the walls with spiked barricades and stationed archers along the ramparts. Arrows rained down on them the moment they broke cover. Rogan raised his shield, deflecting volley after volley, his arm aching with the strain. Varik slipped behind cover and vanished, reappearing moments later inside the walls as screams erupted.
Zerathis took the fire head-on. With a roar, he wreathed himself in black flame, the arrows burning to ash as they struck him. He bounded up the wall, tearing archers apart with claw and flame, their screams echoing into the night.
At the third outpost, the slavers tried to use their captives as shields, pushing them in front of the gates with blades pressed to their throats. Rogan froze, fury etched across his face.
But Zerathis stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding.
"You think their lives will stay my hand? You think your threats mean anything?"
Black fire coiled around his arm. With a flick of his wrist, shadows surged beneath the slavers' feet, wrapping around their legs like living chains. They screamed, dragged into the earth itself as the captives stumbled free.
The battle that followed was vicious, but brief.
When the last slaver fell, the freed captives stared at Zerathis in silence. He looked back at them, crimson eyes glowing — and then he bowed his head, just slightly.
"You are free," he said simply.
By the time the three outposts lay in ruins, Rogan, Varik, and Zerathis had spilled enough blood to stain the soil black. But more than a hundred freed men and women now stood at their side, many of them choosing to march for the Hollow.
That night, as the fires of the last outpost smoldered, the three leaders sat together on broken crates, their weapons laid at their sides.
Varik passed a flask to Rogan. "Never thought I'd say this, but the daemon fights like one of us."
Rogan chuckled, though his eyes lingered on Zerathis. "He fights like ten of us."
Zerathis smirked, his crimson eyes reflecting the firelight. "I fight because Kael commands it. But tonight… I fight for more than that."
Varik raised a brow. "And what's that?"
Zerathis looked out at the freed captives, huddled in groups, some crying, some laughing in disbelief at their newfound freedom. For the first time, his grin faded into something almost solemn.
"For the first time in centuries… I fight to build, not destroy."
Rogan clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Then you're not fighting alone."
The three sat in silence after that, warriors bound not by chains, but by shared purpose.
And in the glow of fire and ruin, a new brotherhood was forged.