Revival - Chapter 200 The Silence of Hell

Chapter 200 The Silence of Hell

No one thought anything of it at first. Merchants regularly went missing on the back roads to the west, and few lamented the inconvenience of a lost shipment too seriously. There was always a broken wagon, a washed-out crossing, a band of marauders or a rerouting of trade.

It all evened out in the ledgers.

But then a second caravan went missing. Three days after that, a third didn’t report in.

The ledgers filled with overdue deliveries. The roads remained empty. One by one, every reasonable explanation died, leaving only the silence of missing people.

The villages north of the great lake began falling strangely silent.

Old chimneys no longer puffed smoke. The ferries idled in desolate docks. The farmers, who should have been busy in their fields after the snowmelt, were not visible.

A hunting party had gone out.

Not one had returned. They’d sent three patrols. The first had ridden out into nothingness and then ridden back, having seen no sign of man nor beast. The second had stumbled upon recently abandoned camps, where cook fires were still warm.

Then the third patrol went out and was simply gone.

Not one rider came back. There were no bodies, only empty saddle bags and no word of what happened.

Then Sergeant Branik Voss rode through the gates of High March Manor with only four men remaining from the twenty-three who had departed six days earlier.

Every horse bore blood.

Not every rider did.

He spoke only three words before collapsing from exhaustion.

“They’re coming south.”

No one believed him.

Not completely.

Shadow Beasts belonged to the Reach Mountains.

Every child knew that.

Ancient tales told of the black mist wavering among the cracked peaks that lay where once had been great kingdoms-before the Rending had come and split the world apart. None dared tread those tainted regions, save for the soldiers posted in the mountain passes; the beasts were known to slip forth out of shadows to attack a village and vanish back into the mountains before any organized force could reach them.

They had never appeared north of the lake.

They certainly did not appear days away from the mountains.

Someone had to be mistaken.

Then the couriers arrived.

One after another.

Mud-covered horses staggered into every noble estate across Norhollow March.

Sealed messages followed.

Then more.

Every report carried the same impossible conclusion.

Entire settlements had vanished.

Lord Harlan Estwick reached the village of Brim Hollow shortly before sunset.

Nothing remained worth defending.

The outer palisade had broken and been completely breached.

The meeting hall had two walls collapsed inward upon itself.

Every roof in the village had fallen.

Ash drifted lazily through the evening air while smoke still rose from blackened beams.

Nothing living remained: no livestock, no birds sang, even the insects seemed unwilling to linger.

Captain Edric slowly removed his helmet.

“There should be bodies.”

“There should.”

They found none.

Only blood. Great dark stains covered the streets.

Deep claw marks scored the stone foundations.

Doors had not been broken open.

They had been torn away.

Lord Estwick dismounted slowly.

He had spent thirty years patrolling the northern marches.

He had fought bandits.

Raiders.

Border wars.

He had never seen anything like this.

One of his younger knights swallowed hard.

“My lord...”

“What?”

“I think...”

The knight pointed toward the chapel.

Something had climbed the bell tower.

The stone itself bore long parallel gouges where enormous claws had searched desperately for purchase.

The marks continued all the way to the roof.

Nothing that walked upon four legs should have reached that height.

Nobody was foolish enough to suggest spending the night.

Within days, the northern border erupted into confusion.

Signal towers burned throughout the marches.

Couriers rode until horses collapsed beneath them.

Church bells rang through villages that had not sounded alarms for generations.

The Dukes of Norhollow, March and Prosperterra each ordered immediate musters.

The duchies welded a respectable-sized military on parchment. Things weren’t quite as encouraging on the ground. Most villages contributed levies of peasants, millers, and woodcutters.

Boys who barely had enough whiskers to shave themselves.

Maybe a dozen out of a hundred men wore any sort of body armor. Fewer still had helmets that fit them.

Only the household guards and noble retainers carried professional equipment.

The banners looked impressive.

The armies did not.

…

Dukedom of Norhollow

Castle Marchfall overlooked the northern valleys of Norhollow March.

Their great hall reverberated with certainty. The collected nobles had opinions they loudly broadcast. The vast majority had never led soldiers anywhere but into a hunt.

“They are just animals. They can bleed. We have walls; we’ll scatter them as soon as we hit them.”

Duke Roland Kestoran’s head was bowed, and he had yet to comment. His face was weathered, but bore no expression to indicate any listening being paid. Unlike the other nobles and commanders assembled within the chamber’s stone walls, Kestoran had heard old tales passed down to his own father that his grandfather refused to write off as mere tales of fiction. He was aware of one truth that this room seemed to have conveniently forgotten: Tales were passed down, and not just for the mere passing of stories.

The double doors flew open. Boots caked with mud clattered against the polished floor of Baron Cedric Thornwall. His cloak hung in tatters, and his beard was streaked with dried blood.

Conversation ceased in all corners of the hall.

“You abandoned Thornwall Manor!” The words came from many, loudest from Lord Alder refilling his cup from the wine jug. Baron Cedric didn’t bat an eye.

“I evacuated it.”

A ripple of astonishment washed over the room.

Lord Alder snickered. “You abandoned a fortified manor?”

Cedric’s eyes fell on the sniggering man and slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head.

“So did my neighbor.”

“He resisted for longer.”

“By three hours,” Baron Cedric explained calmly.

“But when he got out, he had a great deal fewer family members and men.”

The mocking laughter slowly stopped.

The Baron continued.

“They simply bypassed the walls by climbing them.”

Nobody answered.

“They tore apart the main gate.”

Still nobody spoke.

“They breached the gate in less time than a ram with 50 men could have.”

The laughter disappeared.

Cedric looked around the chamber.

“My people are alive.”

“My manor isn’t.”

“I would make the same decision again.”

The assembled lords cast shifty glances around.

A gruff, middle-aged man cleared his throat. “Your walls, surely, had begun to fall apart?”

Cedric’s gaze turned as hard as rock. “The walls stand yet. The men behind them no longer do.”

…

Prosperterra responded differently.

Its capital possessed greater wealth.

Larger halls.

Finer armor.

More banners.

The council chamber glittered with polished marble and colored glass while wealthy nobles debated maps spread across an enormous oak table.

“The northern villages are expendable.”

 “We must protect the harvest.” 

“A panic would drive down the price of grain.”

“Our traders need confidence.”

Lord Chancellor Veridan sighed and gave the official his attention. “Then instill it!”

‘ On what basis?’

“The truth,” the Chancellor spat. 

No one seemed interested in truth.

Marshal Othric Vale finally struck one mailed fist against the table.

“I already sent the truth.”

The room became quiet.

Everyone respected Othric.

Few liked him.

He had spent forty years fighting border wars while most of the younger lords perfected dancing, court etiquette, and honor speeches.

“My son was with Commander Garran.” There were no interruptions.

“They found him yesterday.”

A few nobles dropped their gaze.

“The commander?”

“What did they find?”

Marshal Othric’s voice was neutral.

“Pieces.”

An intense hush permeated the room.

A young lord shifted in his chair. “Perhaps another will take charge of the next expedition.” No one moved to volunteer.

Not one.

A growing sense of fear began to grow in the room.

Every young noble present wore polished armor.

Most had never fought anything more dangerous than tournament opponents protected by blunted steel.

Othric studied each face.

One by one they lowered their eyes.

He almost pitied them.

Almost.

…

Across both duchies, the pattern repeated itself.

The common folk filled the ranks.

The noble houses filled the command tents.

Bold speeches came easily.

Hard marches did not.

Every council promised confidence.

Every messenger carried darker news.

Every expedition returned smaller than the one before.

Some came back bearing the wounded.

Others carried the only survivors. 

Some never returned at all.

The northern silence continued spreading southward.

Whatever had awakened beyond the Reach Mountains no longer behaved like scattered beasts hunting isolated prey.

It moved with purpose.

It struck in the darkness.

It vanished before dawn.

Most frightening of all – it continued advancing.

…

By the end of the week, the marshals of both duchies had quietly begun corresponding without waiting for permission from their councils.

Marshal Garrick Thorn of Norhollow March and Marshal Othric Vale of Prosperterra had been brother officers in the Eastern Border Campaigns two decades ago, and both had more confidence in each other than in the gaggle of politicians presently waffling in front of them. After the first, ceremonial letters were exchanged, formalities vanished from their correspondence. The speed of the enemy didn’t leave room for polite expressions.

Prosperterra proposed the first practical plan.

Their army would advance by water.

The great lake reached deep into the threatened lands, and the duchy possessed enough river vessels to transport nearly six hundred fighting men. The ships themselves would become floating fortresses, anchored offshore each evening behind walls of water rather than timber and iron that no Shadow Beast could easily breach. Patrols could strike inland during daylight, then withdraw before darkness settled across the forests and farms.

Marshal Garrick read the proposal twice before setting it aside.

“It is clever,” he admitted.

One of his captains nodded. “It is.”

The old marshal’s expression hardened. “It is also the plan of men who expect to retreat every night.”

No one challenged him.

Instead, Norhollow adopted a harsher strategy.

Mercenary companies were hired immediately, not because they possessed greater courage than levies, but because they understood discipline and had survived battles that ordinary farmers never had—alongside them marched newly raised levies gathered from the surrounding baronies.

Their destination would not be the villages.

Those had already been abandoned.

Instead, they would occupy Blackstone Watch, an ancient frontier fortress built centuries before the Rending when the northern kingdoms still guarded the old roads. The walls remained sound, its wells still flowed, and its position overlooked every major trail descending toward the lake.

It would be an outward journey from Blackstone Watch each morning, a stroke where opportunity allowed, a recovery of whomsoever was encountered, a swift ride back to camp before the sun set on their lives. Nobody had thought it would drive the enemy back. Neither was confident it would do even so much as hold him. But who could tell if they would live long enough to do much of anything?

…

The military plans proved far easier to draft than the political ones.

Every courier leaving the frontier carried the same question.

Who should be warned?

The Kingdom?

Certainly.

Neighboring duchies?

Without question.

The southern houses?

Perhaps.

Then someone quietly spoke the name everyone had been carefully avoiding. “Avalon.”

The council chamber of Prosperterra grew noticeably colder.

Young Lord Cassian Varese laughed openly. “Of course, old Avalon defeated Shadow Beasts.”

Several nobles looked toward him.

“They are practically beasts themselves.”

A few uneasy smiles appeared around the chamber.

Others looked away.

Marshal Othric did not smile. “They have and still fight them.”

Cassian shrugged dismissively.

“So the stories claim.”

“The stories,” Othric replied evenly, “were written by the men who survived.”

Before the marshal could continue, Chancellor Veridan raised one hand. “Avalon need not be informed.”

A handful of councilmen instantly agreed with a nod. “The menace still resides in our land.” “Our powers are more than enough.”

“We will not ask the south for any support.”

No one addressed the more immediate threat: Should Avalon answer the call...

If Avalon succeeded where Prosperterra failed...

Every merchant, every minor lord, every common farmer in the South would remember which banner had stood between them and the darkness.

The Chancellor understood politics far too well to permit that.

Marshal Othric understood war too well to argue further.

He merely watched the discussion bury good judgment beneath wounded pride.

…

House Galeden Vale

Not every letter obeyed the council’s wishes.

The house south of Prosperterra, House Galeden Vale, received reports from its own wardens patrolling the lower reaches of the mountains. Those reports matched the stories already arriving from Norhollow with uncomfortable precision.

Burned villages.

Silent forests.

Tracks too large to belong to any natural beast.

Lord Harlian read every report himself.

He wasted no time seeking permission.

“Prepare another courier.”

His steward bowed. “To the Crown, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“And another.”

He looked up. “To whom?”

He answered without hesitation. “Lord Maldric of Isenford, Avalon.”

The steward paused only briefly.

“The Prosperterra councils requested...”

“I know precisely what they requested.”

His voice remained calm.

“They also requested silence.”

He folded the final report.

“The Reach Mountains do not recognize borders.”

Outside his window, the western peaks stood dark against the evening sky.

House Avalon had guarded those mountains for generations.

Whatever old rivalries existed between the great houses, one truth remained older than politics.

When shadows descended from the Reach, the mountain wardens deserved to know.

Several days later, a lone rider crossed the northern bridge into Isenford.

His horse staggered with exhaustion.

The leather dispatch case at his side bore the seal of House Galeden Vale.

Within the hour, Lord Maldric held the letters in his hands.

By sunset, riders had already departed in every direction.

The mountains had begun whispering again.

This time, Avalon listened.

…

The Fallen Abbey

By the fourth day, the company had stopped believing the stories.

Not because they thought them false.

Because they had found nothing.

The forests remained unnaturally quiet. Empty farmsteads stood exactly where the maps claimed they would, abandoned so completely that cooking pots still rested upon cold hearths. Barn doors swung lazily in the wind. Wells remained full. Livestock wandered unattended through fields that should have been ready for harvest.

Every mile without an enemy made the officers less cautious.

Every mile made the veterans more uneasy.

Corin Dask had sold his sword for nearly twelve years.

He had marched beneath a dozen banners, fought brigands, border raiders, and rebellious peasants, and survived two sieges that wiser men had abandoned. He trusted experienced captains, dry boots, and full water-skins. Everything else eventually disappointed him.

The heat arrived shortly after noon.

It settled over the old road like a heavy blanket, turning helmets into ovens and mail into punishment.

When the ruined abbey appeared above the trees, nobody complained when Captain Roderic raised his hand.

“We stop there.”

The abbey had once been magnificent.

Even in ruin, its walls stood taller than most village towers. Broken stained glass still clung stubbornly to empty window frames, while weathered statues watched silently from niches blackened by age. Ivy climbed cracked stone, and young trees had rooted inside what had once been cloisters.

Most importantly–it possessed a well.

Captain Roderic refused to rush.

He divided the company into pairs and spent nearly forty minutes searching every collapsed hall, every roofless chamber, and every broken wall before allowing the remainder of the men through the gate.

Corin approved.

The captain had survived long enough to distrust abandoned places.

The order finally came.

“Inside.”

The discipline lasted perhaps three minutes.

Then the company dissolved.

Some men searched for the kitchens.

Others wandered toward the old library.

Several disappeared into the abbey itself with entirely innocent expressions that fooled absolutely no one.

Mercenaries called it searching.

Everyone else called it looting.

Corin ignored them.

The well mattered more than forgotten relics.

He drank until his stomach protested.

Then he filled his canteen.

Then he drank again.

Finally satisfied, he filled the canteen once more before finding a strip of shade beneath the remains of the southern wall.

Captain Roderic’s voice echoed across the courtyard.

“Stay ready.”

“We leave the moment I say.”

Several men acknowledged him.

Most continued exploring.

Corin rested his back against cool stone.

The steady hum of insects mixed with distant conversation until both slowly disappeared.

Sleep arrived without asking permission.

Something woke him.

At first, he thought it was part of the dream. The noises were vague and muffled and familiar somehow. Somewhere in the depths, a peculiar scraping could be heard, then rapid footsteps, then voices in words he could yet comprehend.

Corin opened an eye.

In the bright courtyard, it didn’t seem possible. He merely listened, for a moment. Then came a scream. Not one of surprise, however clear and piercing.

The protracted shriek of despair of a man well acquainted with his conqueror.

Corin lurched to his feet.

The sound came from inside the abbey.

Another shout followed.

Boots hammered against the stone.

Three mercenaries burst through a narrow doorway leading into the lower levels, stumbling into the sunlight with wild terror written across their faces.

One looked over his shoulder.

The other two never did.

Something followed them.

It emerged without haste.

Its shape resembled a great hunting beast, though far larger than any wolf Corin had ever seen. Dark hide clung loosely across powerful shoulders, while pale smoke drifted endlessly from its outline, blurring the edges of its body as though it never entirely occupied the same place twice.

Its eyes held nothing.

No rage.

No hunger.

Only purpose.

The nearest mercenary raised his axe.

The beast simply wasn’t there.

For an instant it dissolved into trailing mist.

The next instant it drove into the man.

The impact sounded like a heavy log striking wet earth.

The man crossed half the courtyard before colliding with the abbey wall. Stone cracked beneath the force. The sound of bone breaking, mail straining, and the sudden burst of something leathery, followed by the flow of fluid, filled the yard.

Nobody shouted orders.

Nobody formed ranks.

Training vanished beneath terror.

Another mercenary dove through a doorway, dragging his companion behind him. They slammed the heavy wooden door shut.

The beast watched them.

Its head tilted slightly.

Then it moved.

Corin could barely comprehend it.

One heartbeat, the creature stood in the courtyard.

The next, a ribbon of smoke flashed across the ground.

The beast leaped to the top of the doorway, claws buried deep into the ancient capstone.

Stone and wood splintered.

Iron hinges shrieked.

The doorway shook violently.

It would not hold.

Corin’s mind finally caught up with his eyes.

Run.

His canteen still rested beside the well.

His shield leaned against the wall.

His spear lay only a few paces away.

He reached for none of them.

He turned toward the gate.

That single movement betrayed him.

The creature stopped tearing at the door.

Its empty gaze settled upon him.

Now Corin knew what no frightened messenger had been able to say. These things didn’t just kill; they hunted. Suddenly the courtyard was no longer large enough, and the only urge left within him was to run.

His legs obeyed.

He had taken only two strides when the beast became smoke once more.

It crossed the courtyard faster than any horse could have run.

Corin never heard it arrive.

He felt only the shadow fall across him.

Then the world disappeared beneath the darkness.

…

Reaction 

The report from the surviving mercenary reached both marshals within three days.

Neither man cared that only one soldier had escaped.

One witness who observed carefully proved more valuable than a hundred frightened rumors.

Marshal Garrick Thorn read the account twice before laying it upon the table.

Marshal Othric Vale did the same in Prosperterra.

Separated by nearly a hundred miles, both old soldiers reached the same conclusion before either had written the next letter.

The beasts had not appeared from open country.

They had emerged from beneath the abbey.

That single detail changed everything.

Ancient ruins.

Collapsed keeps.

Abandoned mines.

Forgotten crypts.

Caves.

Cellars.

Every dark place left untouched by generations slowly formed a pattern across their maps.

“They’re denning,” Garrick said quietly.

His chief scout frowned.

“Like wolves?”

“No.”

The marshal slowly shook his head.

“Worse.”

“They gather where daylight cannot reach and are expanding their hunting grounds.”

Within the hour, couriers departed in every direction.

The orders were brutally simple.

Burn abandoned villages.

Burn empty barns.

Burn forgotten shrines.

Pull down roofless halls.

Collapse mine entrances wherever possible.

If a ruin could not be occupied–it would cease to exist.

One captain stared at the written order in disbelief.

“My lord...”

“There are churches on this list.”

“There are.”

“There are mills.”

“There are.”

“There are homes that people might one day rebuild.”

Marshal Garrick met his eyes.

“There will be no one left to rebuild them if those things become nests.”

The captain saluted without another word.

Prosperterra received the same recommendation from their marshal as well.

The council received it less enthusiastically.

Lord Chancellor Veridan studied the proposal with obvious irritation.

“Burn half the northern frontier?”

He looked around the chamber.

“Has the marshal finally lost his senses?”

Several merchants immediately voiced their objections.

“The timber alone would cost fortunes to replace.”

“The mills support three market towns.”

“The abandoned villages still pay taxes once resettled.”

One elderly noble frowned thoughtfully.

“If we destroy our own estates...”

“... haven’t the beasts already won?”

Marshal Othric waited until every objection had been voiced.

Then he spoke quietly.

“The villages are already gone.”

No one answered.

“The people are already dead.”

Still, no one answered.

“I am attempting to prevent the same discussion from taking place fifty miles farther south.”

His words settled heavily across the chamber.

Not because they lacked reason.

Because they demanded sacrifice.

Prosperterra had grown wealthy for generations.

Its council understood investment.

Profit.

Harvests.

Trade.

Very few among them understood war.

…

The mercenary’s description proved equally divisive.

Every surviving witness described the same impossible thing.

The beasts dissolved into drifting smoke as they moved.

They crossed open ground faster than any living creature should.

Their outlines shimmered.

Their attacks arrived almost before the eye could follow.

Marshal Garrick accepted every word.

The old Marshal understood men who survived battles rarely invented details that would make them appear foolish.

The council did not agree.

Lord Edrian Karswell actually laughed. “A frightened peasant sees mist.”

“He mistakes speed for sorcery.”

Another noble nodded immediately. “Exactly.”

“The creature was merely quick.”

“The smoke existed only in his imagination.”

Marshal Garrick looked slowly around the chamber.

“Have any of you fought one?”

Silence answered him.

“No?”

He folded the report carefully.

“Then perhaps the only man who survived deserves more consideration than those who remained comfortably at home.”

No one challenged him directly.

No one accepted the report either.

The official record quietly changed.

The beasts became...

Fast.

Powerful.

Exceptionally dangerous.

Nothing more.

The smoke disappeared beneath the careful editing of men who found the truth inconvenient.

…

One recommendation, however, survived every argument.

Marshal Garrick had spent enough years campaigning to recognize something equally dangerous.

Steel alone would not solve this.

He requested mages.

Not scholars.

Not court advisors.

Battle mages.

Elementalists.

Illusionists.

Anyone capable of surviving beyond the walls.

The request emptied nearly every respectable academy within Norhollow March.

Some volunteered eagerly.

Others obeyed reluctantly.

Most had never stood beside professional soldiers.

None understood what awaited them.

Prosperterra refused to follow.

Their magi remained valuable political advisors, estate managers, healers, and tutors to noble households.

Sending them into forests alongside mercenaries struck several councilors as absurd.

“They are too valuable,” Chancellor Veridan declared.

Marshal Othric looked toward the northern windows.

“So are the people dying out there.”

No one responded.

…

By the time the first villages began burning under orders from their own lords, the once safe frontier itself had changed.

Columns of black smoke rose across the northern horizon.

Ancient ruins collapsed beneath teams of laborers.

Empty monasteries burned through the night.

Watchtowers that had stood abandoned since the Rending finally fell into piles of broken stone.

Many common folk wept as generations of history disappeared in flames.

The marshals never looked back.

They had not ordered the destruction of buildings.

They had ordered the destruction of shelter.

If darkness had become the enemy’s ally–then daylight would become theirs.

…

The Road South

The reports grew darker with every passing day.

Before either marshal fully understood the pattern, the frontier changed once again.

The roads filled.

Not with soldiers.

With families.

Whole towns left behind homes that generations had lived and raised families in, their hearths cold. Plowmen guided their tired cattle south with white-knuckled grips on lead ropes, their wagons packed with crying babies, household treasures, the last of their quilts, grain, and anything else that the dread, the panic, seemed to drive onto a vehicle, to get away from the enemy. Most had less than they could hold in their arms.

The stories traveled faster than the refugees.

A watchtower had fallen in a single night.

A monastery had gone silent.

An entire caravan had simply vanished.

Each tale sounded more impossible than the last.

Then Lord Edwin Harrow entered the council chamber of Prosperterra.

His armor remained scarred from recent battle, and one sleeve had been hastily stitched where claws had torn through mail.

“My lords,” he began quietly, “Millford is gone.”

A hush descended upon the chamber, so profound that the rustle of clothes seemed deafening.

“We found no survivors.”

He swallowed once before continuing.

“There were no bodies.”

“Only blood.”

“And bones.”

His voice became noticeably heavier.

“Men.”

“Women.”

“Many... many children.”

No one interrupted him.

“We tracked the beasts to a limestone cave less than a mile from the town.”

Several younger nobles straightened with renewed confidence.

“So you attacked?”

“We did.”

Lord Edwin looked toward the polished floor.

“They came out of the darkness before we reached the entrance.”

“I lost seventeen men.”

“My veterans refused to enter the cave.”

The chamber filled the crevices of cowardice.

“They said darkness belonged to the beasts.”

“We withdrew before nightfall.”

Lord Cassian Varese shook his head with open contempt.

“You surrendered a cave?”

“I preserved what remained of my command.”

“You lost seventeen men.”

“I returned with forty-three.”

Several young nobles murmured their agreement with Cassian.

Lord Edwin looked from one face to another.

Not one of his critics had left the safety of the capital.

Not one had seen the frontier.

Not one had watched disciplined soldiers abandon courage the moment darkness breathed back at them.

“You concern yourselves with seventeen soldiers,” Edwin said at last.

“You should concern yourselves with seventeen thousand refugees.”

Confused expressions answered him.

He walked toward the tall windows overlooking the southern road.

“They’re already coming.”

No one moved.

“They’ve already abandoned the northern villages.”

“They’re starting to abandon the market towns.”

“They’re abandoning the farms 50 miles from the attacks.”

His voice lowered.

“Every road leading south now carries your people.”

The council hurried toward the windows.

Far beyond the city walls, thin lines of wagons stretched across the distant roads.

Too many to count.

Too steady to dismiss.

Prosperterra had spent generations measuring wealth by harvests, taxes, and trade.

Now hundreds of frightened families marched away from those very fields.

For the first time, several councilors understood.

The Shadow Beasts were not merely attacking villages.

They were emptying an entire frontier.

And every frightened step south carried the darkness closer to the heart of the kingdom.

…

Aurenshald

Aurenshald’s council chamber was erected in the same manner, and for the same purpose every royal court was: to impress every entrant to it where power lay. Marble columns soared toward a vaulted ceiling, painted in bright fresco showing battles fought by rulers none in that day recalled; great hangings embroidered with the crest of each duchy fell in static splendor before gleaming stone walls; the light through the immense stained glass illustrated the very founding of the kingdom.

It had once been a room where armies marched because a king had spoken.

Now it was a room where powerful men explained why they could not.

King Halric of Haldrith Vale sat quietly beneath the ancient crown.

At his right stood Crown Prince Caedmon.

Around the great table waited the Duke of Riverrun, the Duke of Stonecross, the Duke of Morvalthal, the Duke of Varrones, the Count of Stormholt, the Count of Norwyn, and the Marquise of Norcrest.

Nobody was smiling.

The Crown Prince was the first to stand. “Before we begin, I have asked for the opinion of Lord Maldric of Isenford.”

A few heads looked up.

“According to the Wardens, what we are experiencing here is a Shadow Bloom.”

The room fell silent.

“I agree,” the prince stated.

He allowed the words to settle before continuing.

“A Shadow Bloom does not simply produce more beasts.”

“It expands the lands they can inhabit.”

“It pushes their territory farther from the Reach Mountains.”

He placed another report upon the table.

“We are also seeing increased barbarian movement along the Frostmarch frontier.”

The Duke of Riverrun frowned.

“They’re connected?”

“They’re being displaced.”

“The Shadow Bloom drives everything before it.”

He looked slowly around the table.

“Our northern border remains under constant pressure.”

“Our eastern frontier now grows increasingly unstable.”

“We cannot strip either army without inviting another disaster.”

“We require another solution.”

The Duke of Stonecross answered almost immediately.

“The answer seems obvious.”

Every eye turned toward him.

“The South— Avalon.”

“They have fought Shadow Beasts before.”

“They know these creatures.”

“Call their banners.”

Several voices immediately agreed.

“Avalon should march.”

“They have experience and an obligation.”

King Halric then addressed them. “A good part of Avalon’s available fighting force is already moving towards the south.”

The caravan,” someone scoffed.

“Then call them back,” suggested the Duke of Varrones.

The king met his eyes evenly.

“And leave the caravan?”

“It can wait.”

“No,” the king stated calmly.

“It can’t.”

Several nobles frowned.

“The southern trade supplies silk, spices, medicines, dyes, rare metals, and half the luxury goods that flow through this kingdom.”

He rested both hands upon the council table.

“And if that caravan does not make it to the merchant cities this season, we damage more than just Avalon.” 

“We damage every merchant house, every customs house, every guild, and every noble household reliant upon that trade.”

No one answered immediately.

The King looked around the chamber. “Can your house suffer that kind of economic loss?”

“We need a solution that uses the forces we possess.”

The discussion collapsed almost instantly.

Riverrun could not weaken the northern marches.

Stonecross required every available man to secure its western mines.

Morvalthal watched the eastern roads.

Varrones guarded the southern coast.

Stormholt expected raids before winter.

Norwyn had suffered two failed harvests.

Norcrest lacked the coin.

Every explanation carried truth.

Every explanation ended the same way.

Someone else should bear the burden.

The Crown Prince watched the arguments continue until they became almost indistinguishable from excuses.

No one refused the King.

No one obeyed him either.

Soon that old anger flared up as he encountered the truth of the true weakness of the kingdom.

His father possessed the authority to request.

The great houses possessed the authority to decline.

The kingdom no longer fielded one army.

It fielded dozens.

It no longer followed one strategy.

It followed whatever each lord believed best for his own lands.

They had purchased generations of peace by granting greater independence to every powerful house.

Peace had run its course.

The debt it had postponed had finally come due.

King Halric listened as the voices rose around him, each lord arguing for the crisis nearest his own lands.

Money; Harvests; Trade; Border disputes; Ancient rights;  Old grievances polished until they sounded new.

Every concern possessed merit.

Every argument deserved to be heard.

Yet not one voice spoke of the army already marching south, or of the war that would soon render every other debate meaningless.

Outside the stained-glass windows, the bells of Aurenshald marked another passing hour.

Far to the west, another village would likely burn before those bells rang again.

Inside the council chamber, the kingdom continued debating whether it could afford to save itself.

The Shadow Beasts had not yet reached the heart of the realm to kill it, but it was racing the rot of division that had arrived there years before.