The road home was not a road at all.
Ash lay heavy on the earth, smothering paths once beaten flat by wagons. What had once been meadowland was now gray wasteland, the grass charred to brittle husks, streams muddied with soot. Each step sank into dust that clung to boots and scales alike. Feyra padded lightly beside Draven, her coat dulled by smoke, while Stonehide's tail dragged faint furrows through the pale ground.
Draven's lungs burned with every breath, but his eyes never left the horizon. Somewhere beyond the scorched ridges lay Branthollow. His village. His beginning.
The Codex pulsed faintly in his mind as they walked, guiding him not with words but with sensations — the whisper of roots where safe ground lay, the faint hum when danger prowled too near. Twice, it flickered sharp, and moments later, gray silhouettes slithered from the ash.
Wildings.
Their hides were charred, eyes glowing faint red from the Ruins' taint. One lunged, skeletal ribs showing through its hide, shrieking with hunger.
Draven didn't flinch. The lotus mark burned bright across his chest as he raised his halberd. Feyra blurred forward, paws igniting green light — Verdant Step etched glowing prints across the ash, weaving a path that Stonehide slammed upon, tail cracking open the earth. The wildings collapsed under the combined force, lifeless before their cries had faded.
Draven exhaled. The bond flared warm inside him, strength rising through muscle and bone. More bonds meant more vitality. The Codex had whispered the truth before, but now he felt it — a body no longer so fragile. His beasts' strength was his own.
They pressed on.
Hours later, the land softened. The air grew less acrid, the ash thinner. Outlines appeared — burned fences, tilting field markers, the faint silhouettes of the village outskirts. Draven's steps slowed.
Branthollow.
It looked smaller than he remembered, half-hidden under the weight of smoke. But it was still there.
A faint creak echoed. From the treeline, a trap line snapped loose, dangling with crude iron teeth. Then a voice, steady but sharp, cut the silence.
"Step forward. Slowly."
Draven stilled. Out from the brush walked Mira, bow drawn, string taut. Her eyes, hardened by weeks of watching, widened as they fell upon him.
"Draven…"
Her voice faltered.
He lowered his halberd, exhaustion etched across his face but resolve burning in his eyes. "I came back."
For a moment, the world held still. Then Mira lowered her bow. Her beasts padded into view, bristling, then settling as Feyra and Stonehide padded ahead, tails low but eyes bright.
The sanctuary grove behind Mira stirred, as though the land itself had held its breath. When Draven stepped across the village outskirts, the Codex threads snapped taut.
The lotus mark flared — emerald light rushing out in waves. The beasts in the sanctuary stirred, eyes glowing faintly as a ripple passed through them. Luma bleated, horns shimmering. The scarred hound lifted its head, limping step smoothing. The mule brayed deep, muscles swelling with renewed stamina. Birds fluttered, wings glowing faint, taking the sky for the first time in months. Even the old ox's low bellow rolled like thunder, steadier than before.
The Codex burned runes across Draven's vision, recording each awakening:
Luma — Servitor: Forager's Blessing.
Scarred Hound — Servitor: Pack Alert.
Mule — Servitor: Endure.
Ox — Servitor: Steadfast Push.
Bent-wing Birds — Servitor: Scout's Eye.
Ear-scarred Pig — Servitor: Bristlehide.
None leapt to Nobility — only Feyra and Stonehide still shone with that higher light. But the sanctuary beasts were no longer fragile. They had grown.
Draven sank to one knee, overwhelmed as the resonance poured through him. His chest heaved, but not with exhaustion — with power. More bonds. More strength. The Codex hummed in response, lotus blazing like a star.
Mira knelt too, hand steadying his shoulder. "You're different," she whispered. "Changed. And yet…" She searched his face, then smiled faintly. "Still you."
He closed his eyes, letting the moment sink into his bones.
But peace was fragile. Mira's voice turned colder as she recounted the weeks past: Dominion scouts twice, driven off by traps and bluff. But the last group had asked too-specific questions — about bindings, old ruins, beasts that should never be spoken of. Her bowstring had silenced their tongues, but the questions lingered.
Draven's jaw tightened. Chainkeepers. Even if unnamed, their shadow crept closer.
"We can't stay," he said, rising, voice steady. "They'll come again, in greater numbers. We'll draw them here if we linger."
Mira nodded. No argument.
The beasts stirred as if hearing, readying themselves. Feyra pressed against his leg. Stonehide's rumble rolled low. The hound barked once, sharp. The flock of birds circled overhead.
Together, a group. His group.
Night fell as they moved beyond the village outskirts. The sanctuary dimmed behind them, lanterns snuffed. A horn blew faint in the distance — Dominion's shadow on the wind.
The Codex pulsed once more, runes etching across Draven's mind:
"Eyes turn to fire. Steps must turn to shadow."
Draven gripped his halberd tighter. They would not flee. They would move, grow, strike when the time came.
And Branthollow would not fall alone.