The fires of Sacra-Hill burned low in the night, casting eerie shadows across the ruined streets. Smoke still curled from collapsed buildings, the stench of ash and death thick in the air. From the edge of the city, Lords Garval Jigan and Indus Palper stood at the war table within their command tent, listening to the reports from their returning reconnaissance teams.

Jigan studied Desgan carefully. Though her armor was battered and scorched, and exhaustion hollowed her eyes, she sat upright—every inch still a warrior.

“Tell us exactly what you saw.”

Desgan exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the edges of her bandages. “It started in the city.”

Her voice grew distant, her mind still trapped in the memory. “They came from the sky—metal dragons with spinning wings. Not beasts, but machines.”

Jigan’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Palper snorted. “Machines?”

Desgan ignored him. “They hovered over Sacra-Hill, watching. And then, they struck.”

She shuddered. “They didn’t drop. They descended—controlled, like spiders weaving down their silk. They hit the rooftops first, moving faster than any unit I’ve ever seen. We barely had time to react before the slaughter began.”

Her hands trembled slightly, but she gritted her teeth and continued. “And then the smaller ones broke off. Not just scouts, not just support—killers. They streaked through the sky like hunting falcons, their weapons spitting fire and lightning. They tore through my forces as if they knew where we’d be before we did.”

She swallowed, glancing at Jigan. “We were being herded.”

Palper raised an eyebrow. “Herded? By Beastkin?” His tone was thick with mockery.

Desgan’s fingers curled into fists. “Laugh all you want, Lord Palper. But they fought with precision. They took positions that cut us off from reinforcements. They left us with only one way to run.”

Her voice dropped. “And we ran.”

Jigan’s hands twitched slightly, but Palper let out a sharp laugh. “You expect me to believe that an entire Austorian force—our elite—was routed by escaped slaves?”

Desgan’s smirk was humorless. “Then I expect you to die soon.”

Palper’s amusement vanished.

Desgan leaned forward, her voice sharpening. “I gathered what I could. Regrouped my forces. I refused to believe we had lost to them—not like that. So we moved south, toward the farm. The last reports told me the Beastkin were massing there, and I thought—”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I thought we could crush them there. That we could break whatever delusions of victory they had.”

She let out a bitter breath. “I was wrong.”

Jigan stiffened. “What happened?”

Desgan’s expression darkened. “The city fight was chaos. But the farm?” Her voice dropped. “That was an execution.”

She looked away as if ashamed. “I expected broken slaves. I expected rabble trying to fight like trained soldiers. But what I found was something else entirely.”

Her eyes met Jigan’s again. “It wasn’t just a group of Beastkin defending a farm. It was an army. They were dug in, their movements sharp and disciplined. When we charged, they didn’t panic.”

She clenched her jaw. “They waited. And then they slaughtered us.”

Palper crossed his arms. “You make it sound as if they outmatched you entirely.”

Desgan’s voice was cold. “They did.”

She exhaled sharply. “We tried to break their lines, but then came the machines. Not from the sky, but from the roads.”

Palper frowned. “Machines?”

Desgan gave a hollow chuckle. “Rolling on wheels, but moving like predators. Their turrets turned without hesitation, their weapons cutting through my soldiers before they could even reach them. Cavalry—useless. Archers—useless. We couldn’t get close.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve fought Elves. Dwarves. Raiders. Rebels. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

She met Palper’s gaze. “This isn’t a rebellion. This isn’t escaped slaves playing at war.”

She leaned forward. “This is an army.”

Silence filled the tent.

Palper let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You sound as if you’ve already surrendered.”

Desgan’s expression hardened. “I don’t fear war, Lord Palper.” She dug her fingers into the wooden stool. “I fear that you refuse to see the truth before it kills you.”

Palper ignored her. He turned to Jigan, his voice lowering. “She’s delirious. She sees shadows in the firelight and calls them dragons. You—of all people—aren’t fool enough to believe her, are you?”

Jigan didn’t answer immediately. Because he had seen one before. The Elven lands. On the road to that led to that cursed village of Mya. The thing that had nearly annihilated his cavalry—the dragon that wasn’t a dragon. The one he had been mocked for reporting.

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Before he could speak, the tent flap burst open, and a dust-covered scout stumbled inside. His armor was torn, his face streaked with sweat and exhaustion.

“My lords,” the Second Recon Rider panted. “The Salin Bridge—it’s gone.”

A stunned silence filled the tent.

Palper’s face twisted into disbelief. “Gone?” he snapped. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

The scout swallowed hard. “Destroyed.” He took a steadying breath. “The Beastkin destroyed it.”

Jigan’s stomach twisted. The Salin Bridge was the largest crossing over the Murlan River, the lifeline that connected Sacra-Hill to the Elven Kingdom and beyond. Without it, the only passage for reinforcements was the smaller southern bridge, nearly thirty miles away.

The implications were disastrous.

Palper, however, only scoffed. “More lies. More impossible feats.” He turned to Desgan. “First you tell me they defeated you with flying machines, and now you expect me to believe they have the engineering capability to destroy a bridge that took fifty years to build?”

The scout hesitated. “My lord… they told us it was the Beastkin.”

Palper frowned. “What?”

The rider exhaled. “There were Dwarves—drunk, laughing. Mocking us. They said that ‘the slaves’ had done what the nobles never could. They acted like this was all planned.” He clenched his fists. “They knew. They knew before we even arrived.”

Jigan felt the pieces clicking together in his mind.

The Beastkin weren’t just fighting to defend themselves. They were executing a coordinated strategy. Cutting off reinforcements. Setting traps. Luring them into prepared positions.

This was not a desperate rebellion.

This was a war plan.

Palper, still unconvinced, waved him off. “Enough. We’re done entertaining these fantasies. Jigan—prepare the cavalry. We advance now.”

Jigan hesitated. “Indus, this isn’t just another insurgency. If Desgan and the scouts are telling the truth, we’re—”

“I said enough!” Palper snarled. “I won’t let paranoia halt my advance. We are going to crush these pathetic beasts, and when we reach the farm, we will burn it to the ground.”

Jigan clenched his fists. He knew arguing further was pointless. Palper had already made up his mind.

Desgan looked up, her breath ragged as the pain set in. “Don’t go.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “They’re waiting for you.”

“And you will go to see the king about your defeat.” Palper stated, ignoring her warning. “We go to meet them.”

And then the Fourth Recon scout stumbled in.

He was barely conscious, his armor torn to shreds, his breath ragged and shallow. He stumbled forward, his breath shallow, his eyes unfocused. His lips moved, but at first, only a dry rasp came out.

Then, barely a whisper:

“Slaughtered.”

He blinked, as if seeing something that wasn’t there. His fingers twitched, reaching for a sword that wasn’t at his side.

“Near… the farm…” His body swayed, his knees buckling. He wasn’t just wounded. He was broken.

His voice cracked. “We never… we never stood a chance.”

And then, he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Silence filled the tent.

Then—a deep, mechanical hum filled the air.

The tent fabric rippled and the tent flap blew open as a strong wind blew through the tent.

Jigan froze.

Palper’s brow furrowed.

And then—it came.

A low, unnatural hum. A deep, mechanical growl, rolling over the ruins of Sacra-Hill like the breath of a waiting predator. It sent ripples through the air, rattling the tent poles, making the fabric tremble like a living thing. The sound dug into Jigan’s bones, foreign, yet instinctively menacing.

The tent flap blew inward, and the scout on the ground groaned, curling inward as if the noise alone could crush him.

Jigan turned sharply toward the sound. Palper did too—but slower. As if part of him already knew he wasn’t going to like what he saw.

And then it appeared.

The beast.

Sleek. Black as the void. Its spinning wings tore through the night, churning the air in a relentless, rhythmic howl. It did not flap. It did not glide. It did not roar.

It hummed. It whispered death.

It was nothing like a wyvern. Nothing like any beast of the skies they had ever known.

Jigan’s hands clenched. Palper’s lips parted, but no words came.

Because in that moment, there was nothing left to say.

The Doomgauwer horns blared again. The deep, echoing dirge that had broken armies, that had drowned cities in despair.

But now… it sounded hollow.

Jigan placed a hand on his sword. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“We’re marching into something we don’t understand.”