The land had changed.
The further east Draven walked, the stranger the soil felt beneath his boots. The grass thinned into brittle stalks, patches of earth burned gray with ash. Trees stood blackened, some hollowed like chimneys, their branches twisted upward like charred fingers reaching for mercy that never came.
They called this stretch the *Ashen Verge*. Long ago, Dominion and League clashed here, and the ground had never healed. Even the wind carried a faint tang of smoke and iron, as if battles past still lingered in the air.
Feyra padded at his side, her large ears flicking. Every time her nose dipped, Draven caught himself tightening his grip on his cloak. She sensed things before he did.
"Stay close," he murmured. She brushed his leg, as if answering.
---
The sound reached him before the sight did — the steady thud of hooves, the clink of harness, the harsh laugh of men who thought the road belonged to them.
Draven pressed himself behind a fallen log, heart racing. Feyra flattened beside him, her tail stiff.
Five riders came into view. Dominion scouts. Cloaks of black and crimson fluttered from their shoulders, and their beasts — muzzled, scarred, eyes dulled — carried them like broken tools. Slave marks glowed faint on each chest, the heat of iron etched deep.
Draven's fists clenched. *Chains on every breath. Even here, in the open wilds.*
The riders' voices carried as they passed.
"…Ruins'll be ours soon enough."
"…League dogs can snarl all they want, but they'll bleed first."
"…Orders say cull any unmarked strays. Even wildlings."
Laughter followed, harsh and cruel.
Draven held his breath. If they saw Feyra — if they even touched the false mark on her chest — it would smear. She'd be branded a stray and cut down on the spot.
*If they find me… they'll trace me back. Mira. The sanctuary. Everything will burn.*
His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it. *Not yet. Not like this.*
The patrol passed. Their hoofbeats faded into the Verge, leaving silence heavier than any roar.
---
But silence did not last.
From the trees ahead stumbled a beast. At first glance, it was a wolf. But its gait was wrong — legs bent too far, muscles quivering with every step. Patches of fur were seared away around a glowing scar on its chest. The mark pulsed erratically, unstable, sparks of crimson light flashing from it.
Its eyes rolled white, foam spilling from its jaws. The stench of rot and burned hair clung to its breath.
A Servitor — twisted by a broken contract. A **mutation.**
Feyra growled low, ears pinned.
The beast lunged.
---
Draven rolled aside as its jaws snapped shut where his throat had been. Feyra darted in, a blur of fur and fangs, nipping at its flank to pull it away from him. The wolf-thing howled, the sound distorted, almost human. Its chest mark flared brighter, smoke rising from the wound as if its very soul was burning.
Draven snatched a fallen branch, bracing it like a spear. When the beast turned on him again, he thrust hard into its shoulder. The wood cracked against muscle, barely slowing it.
"Feyra!" he shouted.
The fox darted under its legs, biting deep into its tendon. The wolf staggered, crashing sideways into the ash-dusted ground. Its chest mark flickered violently, pulsing brighter and brighter until, with a sound like tearing cloth, it went dark.
The beast went limp.
Draven staggered back, chest heaving. The branch fell from his hands. Feyra pressed against his leg, panting, blood staining her muzzle.
He stared at the body. The iron scar over its chest still smoked faintly.
"…Is this what chains make of you?" he whispered. "A life burned out until nothing's left?"
His voice shook. The Dominion's system didn't just control — it broke. It twisted. It turned living creatures into weapons and then into corpses.
Feyra nudged his hand softly, grounding him.
---
That night, from a ridge, Draven spotted firelight in the distance. Not one campfire — thousands.
Rows upon rows of torches lined the plains near the horizon. Smoke curled upward where cookfires burned. He could see banners — crimson and black snapping in the wind. Dominion armies. More than he had ever imagined.
He crouched low, heart thudding. From here, they looked endless, a river of iron flowing toward the Ruins.
---
Further east, another camp answered. Green and gold banners rose like thorns from the plains, horns sounding faint in the night. The League.
The war wasn't coming. It was already here.
Draven's breath trembled. "How am I supposed to fight this?"
Feyra pressed against him again, ears flicking toward the horizon.
Draven's eyes turned to the jagged outline in the distance — the black ruin rising from the ground like a wound that never closed. The Ruins of Chains.
"If there's another way," he murmured, voice breaking, "it has to be in there."
---
Far below, Dominion soldiers laughed around their fires. One kicked at a muzzled hound until it whimpered silent. Another brandished an iron brand over the flames, the tip glowing faint.
"Tomorrow we'll press this into fresh hide," he said with a grin. "Nothing like the smell of burned fur."
Their laughter echoed across the Ashen Verge.
And Draven gripped his fists tighter, staring at the Ruins.