The air in the cellar was oppressive, heavy with fear and the earthy tang of damp stone. Ravien Ashenbough paced near the heavy metal doors, his sharp Elven ears straining for any sound that would betray the return of the Austorians. The cellar was deep, hidden beneath an abandoned wine farms’ barn just outside Sacra-Hill, and its thick walls muted the chaos of battle raging above. But Ravien’s heart told him the peace wouldn’t last. It never did.

“Papa,” Kaelen whispered from the far corner, his young voice trembling as he clung to his mother’s side. “Will the bad men find us?”

Ravien turned, forcing a gentle smile for his son’s sake. “Not today, my little star,” he said softly. “I’ll keep you safe. You must protect your mother and sister, just as I protect you.”

Kaelen nodded solemnly, his small hands clutching his sister Nyris’s arm. Selienne, Ravien’s wife, worked quietly nearby, tending to a Beastkin boy whose arm had been crudely bandaged. The boy winced as she tightened the dressing, and Ravien couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy, even through his own rising unease.

The cellar was packed with hundreds of refugees—Beastkin, Elves, and even a few Humans—all crammed into the cavernous space. The Beastkin had found this hideout by sheer luck, escorting the fleeing residents of Sacra-Hill here just as the Austorian attack began. But Ravien hadn’t seen their so-called army in action. He hadn’t seen them fight, and the stories whispered among the refugees—of the Beastkin standing their ground, of their strange weapons and machines—felt like desperate embellishments.

No army could stand against the Second Austorian Army. Especially not former slaves.

A muffled thud from above snapped Ravien out of his thoughts. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, positioning himself in front of the cellar doors. If the Austorians had breached the farm, he would at least buy his family a few precious moments to flee deeper into the tunnels.

The metallic scrape of the doors being unlatched made his heart race. Ravien drew his blade, bracing for the worst. The doors creaked open, spilling light down the stone steps, and a pair of shadowed figures appeared, carrying a stretcher between them.

Ravien’s sharp eyes narrowed. Beastkin. Their strange uniforms and confident strides were unlike anything he had ever seen. They weren’t ragged slaves or fearful conscripts—they moved with purpose, their clothes blending into the shadows like the hides of predators.

“What’s going on?” Ravien demanded, his voice sharp as he stepped forward, sword still raised. “Who are you? Where are the Austorians?”

The Beastkin medics paused at the base of the stairs, exchanging glances. The older of the two, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, met Ravien’s gaze steadily. “The Austorians aren’t coming here, sir,” he said calmly. “Not right now, anyway.”

Ravien didn’t lower his sword. “And how do you know that? The Second Army doesn’t stop. If they’re not here now, they will be soon.”

“We know,” the scarred medic replied, his tone even. “But we’re not planning on letting them get here in one piece.”

His confidence only irritated Ravien further. “You think you’ll stop them? With what—bravery? The Austorians don’t stop. They crush. And you—Beastkin—run.”

The younger medic flinched at Ravien’s words, but the older one only smiled faintly, as if humored by the accusation. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, sir. Things have changed.”

Ravien’s frustration bubbled over. “How? You’ve done what—shown up when they were leaving? You show up in fancy clothes and steel rods and you think you can hold back an army?” He gestured toward the refugees packed into the cellar. “Just because you managed to recruit some mages will not be enough to hold back that army. And it not just your people who will die, it’s all of us too.”

The scarred medic’s smile faded. “We know what’s at stake,” he said quietly, his voice hardening. “And we’ve bled for it. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got wounded to move.”

“Move where?” Ravien demanded. “You’ll never outrun the Austorians. You’ll be slaughtered.”

The medic’s expression didn’t waver. “We’ve got ways to move faster than their horses. And we don’t leave our people behind.”

Before Ravien could press further, the sound hit him like a physical weight. It started as a low hum, deep and resonant, reverberating through the stone walls and into his chest. The Doomgauwer horns.

Ravien’s blood ran cold.

"The horns," he muttered, his voice barely audible, but his body knew the sound before his mind could fully register it. The deep, bone-rattling drone seeped into his very being, a cursed melody that had turned the tide of wars before a single sword was drawn. His grip on his sword tightened, white-knuckled, as memories of the battlefield surged back with a vengeance.

He had faced them once before—long ago, on the open plains of the Elven borderlands. The Doomgauwer horns, relics of the Demon Lord’s own armies, were never meant to inspire. They were meant to break. The dark magic infused in their tones was insidious, sinking deep into the minds of even the most battle-hardened soldiers. He had seen entire formations waver, their willpower crumbling under the suffocating weight of the sound. He had felt the fear take root, twisting through his veins like poison. Even now, standing in this dim cellar, he could feel it clawing at him, whispering of hopelessness, urging him to surrender.

The civilians around him weren’t as disciplined as soldiers. They cowered, some clutching their ears, others whispering prayers to gods who weren’t listening. A woman sobbed softly, her shoulders shaking as she pressed a trembling hand over her child’s mouth to stifle his cries. The weight of their terror pressed against Ravien like a wave, threatening to drag him down with them.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

And yet—amidst the creeping dread, the smothering magic, and the breaking spirits—there were two who did not falter.

The Beastkin medics.

They moved with steady, practiced motions, their hands firm as they adjusted bandages and secured the wounded. Their ears twitched at the sound of the horns, but their expressions didn’t change. No hesitation. No fear. They didn’t even acknowledge the oppressive aura that had the rest of the room paralyzed.

Ravien felt his breath quicken, anger bubbling up from the depths of his stomach.

"Do you not hear that?" he snapped, stepping toward them. "That sound is meant to cripple you. To turn you into nothing more than whimpering prey before the Austorians even draw their swords!" His frustration grew as they continued working, seemingly unbothered. He gestured sharply to the terrified civilians. "Look at them! Do you think you’re any different? That you're immune to what’s coming?"

The scarred medic, still bent over his patient, finally glanced up. His golden eyes, sharp and steady, locked onto Ravien’s with something dangerously close to amusement.

"The horns?" he said, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an annoying buzz. "Yeah, we hear ‘em."

His partner let out a short chuckle as he fastened a tourniquet. "They really think those still work on us?"

Ravien recoiled as if struck. He could feel the fear crawling into his chest, the tendrils of despair sinking into his mind. His body screamed for him to run, to hide, to surrender—but these Beastkin stood tall. No trembling. No hesitation. Their absolute disregard for the Doomgauwer’s power was as maddening as it was mesmerizing.

"You think you’re untouchable?" Ravien spat, his voice strained with a mix of rage and disbelief. "You think you can just—walk through this unscathed?"

The scarred medic smirked. "Sir," he said, adjusting the strap on his pack, "I think it’s time you realized that we don’t play by their rules anymore."

Ravien’s heart pounded, not just from fear now, but from something else. Something unshakable. He had never seen an army resist the Doomgauwer. He had never seen anyone stare down the power of those cursed horns and smirk. His mind struggled to rationalize it, but some part of him knew—this is why they’re still standing.

The horns bellowed again, shaking the walls, suffocating the air, but the medics moved as if they didn’t hear a thing.

"They’ll break you," Ravien said, though now the words sounded weaker, less certain. "Those horns—they’re designed to tear your will to fight into shreds."

The scarred medic slung his bag over his shoulder and flashed a grin. "Let them play. We’ve got a tune of our own."

Ravien stood there, stunned, as the medics ascended the stairs with their stretchers, their footsteps steady and unshaken. His mind whirled, his hands trembled—whether from lingering fear or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.

He swallowed, turning to Selienne. His wife’s knowing gaze met his, and she gently placed a hand over his. He realized, in that moment, his sword was still drawn—though now, he didn’t know who he had been prepared to fight.

"I need to see this," Ravien muttered, his voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name. He kissed Selienne’s hand and ruffled Kaelen’s hair. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

And then, with one last glance at his terrified people, he ascended the stairs, and stepped into a world that no longer made sense.

What he saw shattered his understanding of the battlefield.

Beastkin soldiers moved with sharp, practiced precision, their camouflage uniforms making them blend into the war-torn landscape. There was no hesitation in their steps, no sign of the ragged desperation Ravien had expected. Instead, they maneuvered like a force that had fought together for years— fluid, purposeful movements, discipline etched into every motion.

These weren’t rebels.

These weren’t escaped slaves fighting with scavenged weapons.

This was an army.

His breath caught as his eyes landed on something that made his stomach twist in confusion. A massive metal carriage—no, not a carriage, not anything he could recognize. It was hulking, angular, and lethal-looking, with a rotating metal device atop it, scanning, watching. Its dark exterior bore no typical ornate markings just a subdued flag, only an air of inevitability, of destruction restrained only by patience.

It hunted.

Ravien’s mind reeled. He had fought in wars, seen the great cavalry of the Royal Plains, the trebuchets of the Austorian war machine, the devastating battle magics of the battlemages and Elven Thaedhír. Nothing moved like this. Nothing looked like this.

Then the wind changed.

A roar, unlike anything he had ever known, shook the air.

It was deep and unnatural, not the beating of wings, not the screech of wyverns. It was mechanical, controlled, rhythmic. He turned his gaze upward just as the thing descended from the sky.

It was monstrous—no, impossible. Black and sleek, its body gleamed with unnatural perfection as its spinning blades kicked up waves of dust and debris. The very earth recoiled beneath it, forced into submission by its sheer presence.

It wasn’t alive, but it moved like it was.

Ravien had no words. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

A presence beside him broke his trance.

“Sir, you need to step back.”

The scarred medic from before jogged toward him, unfazed by the behemoth that had just descended onto the battlefield. He spoke as casually as if he were warning someone to step out of the way of a passing cart.

Ravien barely heard him.

“What… what is that?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the deafening hum of the beast’s spinning blades.

The medic didn’t hesitate. “Hope,” he said simply, his voice carrying something more than just certainty. It carried belief.

And as Ravien stood there, watching the wounded being carried into the belly of the great metal dragon, he realized something.

The Beastkin weren’t surviving out of sheer will.

They weren’t just resisting Austoria.

They had already won.

The machine let out a deep, guttural growl, as if acknowledging its purpose. Then, with unnatural grace, it lifted into the air, rising effortlessly, climbing higher and higher until it was nothing more than a distant shadow against the clouds.

Ravien watched it go, unable to move, unable to think, his heart pounding in his ears.

“This…” he muttered, his voice raw, almost reverent. “This is why their magic doesn’t work. Why you still fight.” He swallowed hard, the weight of realization pressing down on him. “This… is hope.”

The medic clapped him on the shoulder, an easy grin forming. “Hope and a lot of firepower, sir.” He nodded toward the sky. “That’s how we win.”

As if to emphasize his point, two more of the flying beasts roared overhead, dropping crates before banking sharply and disappearing into the distance. Ravien barely registered them, his mind struggling to catch up, to piece together a new reality that had been rewritten before his eyes.

From the distance, the Doomgauwer horns blared again. But this time, their cursed song was swallowed by the lingering echoes of real thunder—the engines of the flying war beasts, still reverberating through the sky.

For the first time, Ravien felt nothing.

“Sir.” The medic’s voice was steady, pulling him back to the present. “You should get back to the cellar. The Austorians won’t wait long. And things are about to get bad out here.”

Slowly, Ravien turned, his body moving on instinct as the medic guided him back.

The horns still played.

But deep in his chest, something new had taken root.

Hope.