The iron-bound doors of the War Room swung open with a heavy, protesting groan. Inside, the air was several degrees warmer, thick with the scent of melted wax and the low, constant hum of the leyline anchors vibrating through the floorboards.

  Captain Drakath didn't look up. He was leaning over the central stone table, a massive slab of basalt etched with a magmatic map of the basin. Veins of glowing orange light pulsed within the stone, shifting to reflect the enemy's current positions.

  Drakath was a man carved from the same brutal stone as the fort itself. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his frame draped in heavy, dark leathers that bore the scars of a dozen campaigns. His skin was the color of weathered oak, mapped with a network of thin, white lines from blade-slashes and demon-claws. His eyes were a piercing hazel, tracking the movements of the obsidian markers on the table. A thick, rust-colored beard framed his jaw.

  He was currently surrounded by three officers, their voices low and urgent.

  "...cannibal migration is pushing closer to the southeastern Flats," one was saying, pointing to a flickering cluster of red markers. "If they set up an outpost, the lookout tower will be vulnerable."

  Drakath's hazel eyes flickered toward the door, locking onto Krell for a fraction of a second. He didn't nod. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply went back to the map.

  Krell and Jax entered quietly, their boots treading softly on the stone. They moved to the shadows of the far corner, standing with the stiff, practiced patience of soldiers who knew better than to interrupt a captain in council.

  "Keep the perimeter guards on high alert," Drakath's voice was smooth and precisely measured, its scholarly cadence out of place in a throat so scarred. It was the voice of a man who read as much as he bled. "If the cannibals move, I want to know before they even draw breath. Dismissed."

  The officers saluted and filed out. As the last man passed, Krell moved to the door, sliding the heavy iron bolt home with a final, echoing clack.

  Drakath let out a long, weary sigh. The rigid commander softened just a fraction as he slumped into a high-backed chair at the head of the table. He reached for a flagon of watered wine, taking a long pull, then gestured toward a tray of roasted meats and hard bread left over from the meeting.

  "Jax," Drakath rumbled, looking at the young scout who was still standing at attention in the corner. "You look like you're about to faint. Take a breath. Sit. Eat."

  Jax didn't need to be told twice. The tension broke in him like a snapped bowstring. He practically fell into a chair and began voraciously tearing into a hunk of cold meat, his hunger overriding any lingering fear of the Captain's presence.

  Drakath watched the boy for a moment, then turned his gaze to Krell. The hazel eyes narrowed.

  "You didn't bolt that door because you wanted to share a meal, Sergeant," Drakath said, leaning forward. His leathers creaked with the movement, a sound like grinding teeth. "The patrol was supposed to be a routine sweep of the Northern Ridge. What happened out there?"

  Krell took a slow breath, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his sword. He looked at the magmatic map, but his mind was back at the ash-dunes of Nethervale.

  "The beginning was quiet, sir," Krell began slowly. "Almost too quiet. We caught a lone grunt, but that was it. No warbands. No scavengers. Just... empty space."

  He paused, his gaze dropping from Drakath's face to the glowing veins of the map. He shifted his weight, his silence stretching a beat too long.

  Drakath leaned further in, his shadow stretching long across the stone table. "Krell. There's something you're stalling for, and I'd prefer if you spit it out."

  Krell looked Drakath in the eyes, his posture stiffening. "Before I finish this report, sir, I need your word that you will sit and listen until I am done. No interruptions."

  Drakath leaned back, his arms resting on the dark wood of his chair. He took a slow, measured sip of his wine, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth that didn't quite reach past his cheeks.

  "A sergeant bartering with a captain," Drakath mused, his refined voice dry. "General Marcellus must have forgotten to send me the update on the change in command structure. You're lucky Cindercrest's politics don't reach us out here, Krell. Fine. Report away, Captain."

  Krell didn't flinch at the sarcasm. He cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the glowing map. "The patrol was standard until we reached the Northern Ridge. But the silence, it felt intentional. I made the call to push toward the restricted zone. We rode until we reached the black iron signpost Cindercrest installed at the edge of the Nethervale ruins."

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  Drakath's eyebrows furrowed. His hand, mid-reach for his cup, stopped dead. The scholarly air in the room vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp coldness.

  "We didn't stop at the mark," Krell said, his voice dropping. "We crossed the barrier. We went toward the ruins."

  Drakath's cup hit the basalt table with a violent crack, wine sloshing over the glowing magmatic veins. He surged halfway out of his chair, a finger stabbing the air toward Krell's chest.

  "You did what? Do you have any idea-"

  "You gave your word!" Krell interrupted, his voice rising just enough to meet the Captain's fury. "You said you would sit and wait until I finished the report before you said a word."

  Drakath froze. His chest heaved with a suppressed rage, the muscles in his jaw working beneath his beard. Slowly, almost painfully, he retracted his finger into a tight fist. He settled back into his seat, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin against his knuckles. He didn't speak, but his gaze was enough to wither stone.

  In the corner, Jax froze with a massive mouthful of meat. His eyes darted between the two superiors, his chewing slowing to a cautious, rhythmic grind as he watched the power struggle unfold.

  "We arrived at the ridge overlooking the Nethervale sprawl," Krell continued, regaining his footing. "That's where Jax noticed the first anomaly. All around Nethervale, there were tracks. Heavy and fresh. Not more than a day or two old."

  Drakath's expression shifted. The fury didn't vanish, but it was joined by a predatory interest. He leaned his head slightly to the side, signaling for Krell to continue.

  "We moved down to the flats to get a closer look," Krell said. "They all led directly into the heart of the ruins. Thousands of them. But it wasn't just a move into the city. We saw a uniformed trail, just as fresh, carving its way back out of Nethervale and heading due East. Something went in with abandon and left organized."

  Drakath's eyes shifted toward the middle of the table, fixing on the young scout. "Is this accurate, Jax? Or has the heat of the dunes started to play tricks on your Sergeant's mind?"

  Jax straightened so fast he nearly choked. He swallowed a lump of meat with a hard, audible gulp. "It's true, sir," he said, his voice cracking slightly but firm. "I've never seen anything like it. The depth of the impressions, the lack of struggle, it was a march."

  Krell stepped closer to the magmatic map, gesturing to the area around Nethervale. "You know Jax is the finest tracker we have stationed at Fort Magnus, sir. If he says the prints were moving together, I believe him. We're talking about waste-creatures, scavengers that usually flee from their own shadows, moving in unison with demons. They weren't fighting. They were following."

  Drakath remained silent, his fist still clenched against his jaw, but the scholarly light in his eyes was replaced by a cold, calculating brilliance. He was no longer thinking about discipline; he was thinking about the implications.

  "While we were investigating the exit trail," Krell continued, his tone turning clinical, "we were ambushed. A cannibal pack caught us from two sides, the ridge and the dune-slope."

  Drakath's brow rose. "Two sides? Cannibals usually hit from the shadows and run at the first sign of steel."

  "Not these," Krell said. "It was a larger group than normal, twenty or so. But the unit, they performed with the perfection you've come to expect from the Ember Vanguard. We transitioned to a defensive circle, cleared the ridges with the bows, and put the rest down in the sand. Not a single one of our men took so much as a scratch. It was a textbook execution."

  Krell paused, a slight grimace crossing his face. "But twenty of them acting with that kind of coordinated aggression so close to the ruins... it didn't feel right. Once the last of them was down, I made the executive decision to cut the patrol short. I didn't want to risk a secondary engagement with whatever left those tracks until you were briefed."

  The silence in the War Room grew heavy, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic clink-clink of Jax's fork as he slowly resumed his meal, his eyes never leaving the Captain.

  Drakath rose from his chair, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't look at Krell; instead, he began to circle the room, his boots making a dull, rhythmic thud against the stone. The silence that followed was agonizing. It stretched long enough for Jax to stop chewing entirely, the boy frozen like a cornered rabbit as the Captain paced behind him.

  Finally, Drakath spoke, his refined voice echoing softly off the vaulted ceiling.

  "You know the Archmagister had that sign placed there for a reason, Krell. That wretched place is where the screaming finale of the Dreadfire Campaign was concluded. We lost a lot of good men that day—men who were far more experienced than you and your scouts. Nethervale is dangerous."

  Drakath stopped at the far wall, staring at a tapestry of the Imperial Seal.

  "This is an interesting position you've put me in," he continued, turning back toward them. "You went against a direct command put in place by the Emperor himself. You broke your patrol route. You engaged with enemies in a restricted zone instead of observing and reporting."

  Krell stood as still as a statue, but his mind was racing. Insubordination. Breach of Imperial Edict. Misuse of Vanguard resources. The list went on and on, each rule he had broken digging a deeper grave for his career, and perhaps his life.

  "However," Drakath said, his voice regaining its cool, scholarly edge. "You also managed to make a discovery that the General and the Archmagister will find interesting. If what you saw is true, something could be stirring in the Wastes."

  Drakath walked back to the basalt table, his shadow looming over the glowing map. "We will be sending an Embercask to Cindercrest immediately. General Marcellus needs to hear of this anomaly of yours. I'll speak with the others on your patrol to confirm every detail of your story. If so much as a pebble is out of place in their reports, Krell, I will have your head."

  He waved a dismissive hand toward the door. "As of right now, dismissed. And Jax? Stop eating my damned food and get to the barracks."

  "Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Jax scrambled out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own feet as he and Krell made a hasty, silent exit. The heavy iron bolt was drawn back, and the doors shut behind them with a definitive thud.

  Left alone, the War Room felt cavernous. Drakath didn't move for a long time. The magmatic map pulsed beneath his hands, the orange light flickering in his amber eyes.

  He reached out, his calloused index finger tracing the jagged, skeletal sprawl of the Nethervale ruins on the stone.

  "Why are you showing signs of life?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice barely a breath. "It has been over a century. You were supposed to stay dead."