Six days.
That was how long it had been since Solen Draven left Branthollow. He had counted the dawns, each sunrise pulling him farther from the village and closer to the jagged silhouette that loomed on the horizon.
By his reckoning, he had walked seventy kilometers east. The Ruins of Chains still lay perhaps another fifty ahead — two or three days more, if he managed to keep the pace.
The journey had changed with every step.
The first two days, he walked among fields and scattered farmsteads, the last fragile reach of civilization. On the third, the farms vanished. Trees thinned into brittle skeletons, their bark split by some ancient fire. The air grew dry, harsh on his throat.
By the sixth day, he had entered the Ashen Verge — a dead country where no crops grew, no rivers ran clean. The soil was cracked and blackened, littered with stone shards. Smoke sometimes seeped from vents in the ground, carrying a metallic tang.
Feyra padded at his side, tail low, ears flicking at the empty land. She tired quicker here. Each night she pressed close to him, lending him her healing warmth, but he could feel how much it cost her. He rationed her strength like food.
The third member of their little company trudged behind, scales scraping against stone. A Stonehide Lizard, no larger than a mule, with dull gray plates and tired yellow eyes. Draven had found it wounded near an abandoned watchtower, ribs showing, flank torn. He had given it water and scraps of dried meat, and slowly, the beast had allowed him to sling his pack across its broad back.
"Stonehide," he had named it. Not a slave, not a tool — simply a companion. It walked at its own pace, never tugged by chains.
With it, he could carry more supplies, save Feyra's strength, and move faster toward the Ruins.
---
That morning, the ground trembled.
At first, Draven thought it was his imagination, the rumble of his own weary steps. But the tremor grew until dust slid from the ridge he was climbing. Feyra bristled. Stonehide hissed, tongue flicking.
He reached the top of the rise, and his breath froze.
Below stretched a battlefield.
On one side, banners of black and crimson rippled — the Dominion. Lines of soldiers stood in grim ranks. Behind them, beasts waited in chains. Massive War-Bears pawed the earth, their fur black as iron. Thunder Hounds snarled, throats glowing faintly. Coiled serpents hissed in pits, handlers prodding them with spears etched in slave marks. Above, wings beat the air — drakes circling, ash trailing from their scales.
Across the plain, the League faced them. Fewer in number, but their beasts stood untethered. A Treant towered at the center, bark like living emerald stone, roots writhing beneath the ground. A stag with silver antlers pawed the soil, light glimmering between its tines. Wolves slipped in and out of shadows, circling their handlers like smoke.
The air itself vibrated with their calls.
Draven crouched low, heart hammering. He had never seen so many beasts gathered at once. Hundreds — maybe thousands. Not farm animals or Servitors, but Nobles, even Kings.
And they were about to tear each other apart.
The horn sounded.
---
The Dominion struck first.
War-Bears thundered across the plain, fur clashing like plates of armor. Their handlers drove them forward, slave marks glowing hot. Behind them, Thunder Hounds leapt, their concussive barks cracking the air, shattering the League's first line of shields.
From the sky, Ashwing Drakes dove, exhaling streams of flame and ash. The ground hissed where fire met soil.
The League responded with precision.
The Treant slammed roots into the ground. Vines burst upward, coiling around charging War-Bears, holding them fast. The Silver Stag's antlers flared, forming a shimmering barrier that blunted the drakes' first firestorm. Wolves darted in and out of shadows, striking soldiers, retreating before blades could touch them.
Draven gripped the ridge, knuckles white.
The Dominion beasts fought with brute force, but their roars carried pain. The marks burned into their hides, twisting their powers beyond natural limits. The League's beasts moved differently. Their attacks flowed with their handlers' shouts, like dance and strike were one.
For a heartbeat, he believed the smaller side might hold.
---
Then a chained Servitor broke loose.
It was a wolfhound, larger than any farm beast, eyes blood-red, slave mark cracked and sparking. Instead of turning on the enemy, it bolted toward the ridge.
Toward him.
Draven froze.
The beast charged, jaws open, claws tearing stone. Feyra darted in front of him, barking sharply, a blur of tan fur. She snapped at its leg, drawing its attention. The wolfhound struck back, swiping, nearly catching her.
Draven grabbed a rock and swung desperately. The blow glanced off its muzzle. The Servitor snarled, slamming into him. He stumbled, nearly tumbling down the slope. Its breath reeked of blood.
Feyra leapt again, teeth finding a tender spot. The beast shrieked as soldiers below yanked at its chains, dragging it back toward the melee.
Draven collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His arms shook.
*If this was only a Servitor,* he thought, *then a King would end me in an instant.*
---
The battle below only worsened.
A ripple of darkness flowed through the League's lines. Kaelith's Shadow-Panther. It appeared like smoke, claws flashing, cutting down an officer before melting back into blackness.
The League staggered but held. The Treant and Stag fought like anchors, slowing the Dominion advance. But the sky rained fire, the ground quaked with roars, and every beast that fell stained the soil darker.
Draven couldn't breathe. He dragged Feyra and Stonehide back from the ridge, fleeing before soldiers noticed.
---
By nightfall, the clash had ended. The League had pulled back, the Dominion held the field. Smoke coiled above the Ashen Verge, blotting the stars.
Draven leaned against Stonehide's armored flank, exhausted. Feyra curled in his lap, chest rising and falling weakly.
He looked east. The Ruins rose against the horizon, their jagged towers glowing faintly in the moonlight.
"Fifty kilometers," he whispered. "If I survive to walk them."
He tightened his grip on Feyra. He was nothing compared to the armies he had seen. But the Ruins might hold another path.
So he pushed himself up, and walked on.