The heavy gates groaned shut behind them, sealing off the outside world.

  Inside, Outpost Blackthorn was a patchwork of hastily constructed defenses—makeshift barricades, metal scrap welded into fortifications, and crude watchtowers looming over the camp. Fires flickered in metal barrels, casting shadows across tired faces. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sweat, steel, and something acrid Kael couldn’t quite place.

  Survivors milled about—hardened fighters, mercenaries, and scavengers, all carrying the same haunted look. They weren’t here by choice.

  They were here because there was nowhere else to go.

  The woman with the rifle motioned for them to follow. “Come on. You’ll want to see the Commander.”

  Kael glanced at Phantom, who gave a slight nod. No one argued.

  As they moved through the outpost, Kael took it all in. Reinforced guard posts, weapons being maintained, people watching from the shadows. This wasn’t just a last stop before civilization—this was a war camp.

  And it was on edge.

  The woman led them to a reinforced bunker near the center of the outpost. A thick metal door stood ajar, revealing a dimly lit interior lined with maps, weapons, and stacks of parchment covered in coded reports.

  A man stood behind a heavy table, studying a battered map. His presence was commanding—broad-shouldered, a streak of silver in his dark hair, scars running down the side of his face. He looked up as they entered, sharp blue eyes assessing them in an instant.

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  “So,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “You’re the ones who made it out of the Spire.”

  Phantom stepped forward. “And you must be the one in charge.”

  The man smirked. “Commander Aldric Voss.” He gestured toward the woman. “You’ve met Captain Rowan.”

  Rowan crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway.

  Aldric’s gaze swept over the group before landing on Kael. “You’re carrying yourself like a man who’s seen some real shit.”

  Kael exhaled. “You have no idea.”

  Aldric motioned toward a chair. “Sit. Talk.”

  They did.

  Elysia wasted no time. “The Spire was tampering with ancient magic. They broke through something they weren’t meant to.”

  Aldric’s jaw tightened. “Demons.”

  “More than that,” Kael muttered. “We ran into something else—something older. The Forgotten.”

  At that, Aldric’s fingers curled into fists. “You’re certain?”

  Phantom nodded. “They weren’t hostile to us. But they were… guarding something.”

  Aldric muttered a curse under his breath.

  Rowan straightened. “You knew about them.”

  The commander rubbed his temples. “I had rumors. Whispers. But if they’re awake again, that means the balance is breaking.” He looked back at the map. “And we’re right in the middle of it.”

  A sharp knock on the bunker door.

  A scout hurried inside, face pale. “Sir. You need to see this.”

  Aldric wasted no time, striding outside. The group followed.

  The scout pointed toward the eastern cliffs. “We spotted movement.”

  Kael squinted into the dark. At first, he saw nothing but jagged rocks and open land.

  Then, flickers of unnatural light.

  A distant, pulsing red glow.

  Aldric’s face darkened. “Demons.”

  The outpost stirred. Whispers turned to shouts. Fighters grabbed weapons, loading rifles, preparing spells. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface was now on the edge of boiling over.

  Rowan swore. “They’re coming for us.”

  Phantom’s eyes narrowed. “Not just them.”

  Kael followed his gaze. Beyond the red glow, barely visible in the darkness, figures moved.

  Shadows wrapped in ancient armor.

  The Forgotten.

  Two armies.

  One outpost.

  And Kael had no doubt they were about to be caught in the crossfire.