Far from Stonecross, the Southern Wilds stirred.
In the steaming marsh, the Marsh Serpent coiled tighter, scales crackling with faint arcs. The reeds shuddered at its hiss, though no wind passed.
On the open savanna, the Lion King rose from its shade. Its mane bristled, each strand stiff with static, and its gaze turned north. No roar left its throat — only a silence that weighed like a challenge.
High above the jagged cliffs, a Great Roc screamed into a cloudless sky. Its wings beat storms into the air where no storms should be, the echo carrying miles.
None of them marched. None left their ground. But each felt the blaze of a new crown.
In Stonecross, a closed book hummed on a flat stone. The glow slipped across its leather like a pulse.
Eda pulled her blanket tighter.
"It's moving again, Tira. Not bright like before, just a low sound, like the ground itself is listening."
Tira watched the faint spill of light and nodded once.
"It isn't calling us at all. It's looking past us. Like it knows there are other crowns out there."
Draven sat by the fire. He didn't answer. The silence around him said enough.
At Fort Gairn, torches burned in the long hall.
Lieutenant Ren stood stiff before the table. His voice was steady, though the words pressed sharp.
"The Raven crowned in open sky. Wings spread wider than ten men. Handlers who raised rods against it lost their beasts. The rods sparked once and went dead in their hands."
A captain gave a thin laugh and pressed his fist to the table to keep it steady.
"Scouts grow taller every mile they ride. Next you'll tell me the Chainbreaker drinks storms. If he truly held a crowned beast, these walls would already be ash."
A handler near the door spoke low, without lifting his eyes.
"You can laugh, sir, but we all know the rods are the spine of the line. If the rods crack, the line goes. And if the line goes, nothing holds a gate."
Another handler lost his calm. His voice broke across the hall.
"Then we're finished now! All of us! If one man's bird can shatter a rod with a scream then what are we but stone waiting to fall—"
Steel flashed. Dorn cut him down where he stood. The body hit stone. The hall went still.
Dorn wiped his blade slow, his voice even.
"Finished men don't speak in my hall."
No one tried another word.
Later, torchlight flickered against Dorn's chamber wall. He stood with his hands on the sill, eyes on the ridge.
"Rods hold the beasts, beasts hold the walls. That's the order we built. If the rods crack, the body breaks." His voice dropped low, almost to himself.
"If he can take this fortress, I will follow him. I will not rot here for chains already turned to dust."
Stonecross rang with drills.
Bloomscript squads rose and fell in rhythm, breathing as one. Shields held tight, hooves and boots thudding the earth together.
Joran hammered bent cart-iron at the forge, sparks bright in the dusk.
"Iron takes a dozen strikes before it listens," he muttered. "These men bend faster than steel, and when they set, they hold harder."
Mira watched a rank turn with beasts at its side.
"They used to flinch when a servitor brushed them. Now they breathe in step with them. The same breath runs through both."
Brenn paced the front, staff thumping dirt.
"Shields forward. No gaps. You're not holding for yourself. You're holding for the one beside you. If you drop, he drops. Take it again and hold steady."
Stonehide anchored the wall, plates gleaming. The Rhino stamped and tossed its head, a proud rumble echoing. Feyra trailed blossoms in rhythm with the ranks. High above, the Raven circled once, its storm crown sparking faint arcs.
At the fires, voices clashed.
Sana's finger jabbed toward Draven's tent.
"You call him savior because it feels good, but look what walks above us. He commands Kings. The Dominion ruled with chains, and now he holds something stronger. What makes you think he won't rule us the same?"
Kerr's reply came sharp, though his tone stayed even.
"You saw it too. No rods. No marks. The beasts bow because they want to. That's not the Dominion's way."
Marrek stared into the fire, his jaw set.
"Choice or not, a crowned beast is still a crowned beast. If he ever turns his hand, we'll break before we can raise a cry."
Mira listened. The words knotted in her chest.
Then Brenn rose. His shadow fell across the circle. His voice was quiet, steady.
"Doesn't matter if he's savior or danger. He breaks chains. That's enough."
No one pressed it further. The fire crackled, the talk died down.
At the edge of camp, shadows traded words.
A cloaked rider eased near a broken cart axle. A veiled woman waited there.
"The line drills tighter every morning," the scout said low. "The crowned bird keeps to the clouds. Men breathe with their beasts now."
Ryl's voice was steady under her scarf.
"Word goes back as it came. Plain. Short. Too many ears out here claim to be hungry."
The scout passed a strip of bark with cramped lines.
"Message rides with the dawn. If it's taken, it says nothing at all."
On the far side of camp another courier swung into his saddle. He took the copy Ryl handed him, tucking it away.
"Fort still holds," he said. "Dorn listens harder than he speaks. If he sends a hand south, it'll be the kind that leaves no print."
Ryl's eyes cut to the sleeping ranks, then back.
"Carry it clean. If a Chainkeeper sniffs you, swallow it and come back empty."
The rider almost smiled.
"If I come back hungry, you'll feed me before you scold me."
He vanished into the dark before the joke could settle.
At Fort Gairn, Dorn leaned on the high wall, watching torchlight crawl the ridge.
"Stonecross or Gairn," he said to no one. "One will fall first. If he brings his line here, we'll see which wall breaks."
At Stonecross, Draven stood where the road met the camp. Beasts lay around the fires, breath slow. Mira came to his side but did not speak.
The book at his hip trembled faint. Light pulled across the leather, words etching in stylized script:
"Two paths. One wall."
The glow faded. Draven's eyes stayed on the dark.