The wind howled through the mountain pass, screaming like the ghosts of the dishonored dead. The scent of frost-bitten stone and old blood clung to Wulfric’s cloak as he rode through the hidden aqueducts of Blackfrost Keep.

Torches burned in iron sconces along the walls, their flickering light carving jagged shadows across his scarred face. His fingers tightened around the reins. Something was wrong.

The keep should have been quiet, its halls occupied by those awaiting his return. Instead, he found men scrambling. Armor being donned. Swords being strapped to belts. Orders being shouted that did not come from him.

His eyes narrowed.

Where the fuck was Lyrius?

He stormed through the keep like a wrathful god descending from the heavens. Servants flattened themselves against the stone walls, fearful of catching his gaze.

Then, he saw one of his lieutenants.

Wulfric moved faster than the man could react, his hand closing around the bastard’s throat, slamming him into the nearest pillar. The sound of bone hitting stone cracked through the hall like a whip.

"Whose orders did you follow?" Wulfric growled, his voice thick with restrained fury.

The lieutenant’s hands clawed at Wulfric’s iron grip, eyes wide with shock. "Y-yours, sire!"

For a single moment, Wulfric did not breathe.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

His rage deepened into something worse—doubt.

And yet—

His mind reeled.

The men. The Iron Revenants. Already marching on Vellmont.

A decision made in his name.

"That fucking whore's son!"

Wulfric stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the heat of his presence became unbearable. "Tell me everything Lyrius said before he left."

The lieutenant hesitated.

Wulfric grabbed his sword belt, yanked him forward, and slammed his forehead against his.

"Speak. Now."

The man gasped, hands trembling. "He said—we had to move now, sire. He said we couldn’t wait any longer."

Wulfric narrowed his eyes. "And why the fuck is that?"

The lieutenant hesitated again.

Wulfric reached for his dagger.

"I don’t know!" the man blurted, flinching. "But he said—we weren’t the only ones looking for it anymore."

Silence.

Wulfric went still.

Not the only ones.

Something cold curled around his spine.

His grip loosened on the man’s belt, letting him stumble back, but Wulfric was no longer looking at him. His mind was already elsewhere.

The Starforge was no longer a secret.

Someone else was making a move.

And Lyrius, reckless, brilliant fucking bastard that he was, had acted before Wulfric could.

"Sound the horns," Wulfric commanded. "We leave now."

His men snapped into motion, no hesitation.

Wulfric turned to his scout. "Fly ahead. Take a Drakeguard mech to Elderwynd. Look for the Helmed Man and the Adventurer’s Guild. We need reinforcements in Vellmont. Tell them we have a traitor to put down."

The scout hesitated. "Traitor, sire?"

Wulfric’s expression was unreadable. "If Lyrius has put my name on a war I didn’t start, then I’ll make damn sure he remembers whose name he stole."

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The scout paled, saluted, and ran.

Wulfric exhaled.

Lyrius had forced his hand. Again.

And this time, Wulfric would make him regret it.

The heavens trembled beneath his wings.

Lyrius sat enshrined in steel and gold, the cockpit of Soldraknirr humming with power as he soared above the roiling clouds of Vellmont. Below, the land stretched vast and defiant—a city on the brink of war, oblivious to the dragon that watched from above.

His fingers flexed against the control grips, the haptic feedback of the suit responding as though the mech was an extension of his own body. His own will.

And it was.

The plate armor encasing him was unlike anything the common rabble of the Vale could ever comprehend. Segmented like a knight’s plate, but reinforced with the adaptive plating of Draconis engineering. The helm locked around his head, gold-trimmed, the crest emblazoned with the sigil of his lost mother’s house. Inside, the neural link pulsed against his temples, feeding him information in real time—weather patterns, thermal readings, trajectories of luminite weaponry and siege weapons still hidden beneath their pathetic illusions of secrecy.

"Fools," he murmured.

Soldraknirr responded to his thoughts, shifting its wings—great auric sails trimmed with black alloy. The twin to Mortivax, yet where his brother’s mech was a beast of iron and ruin, Lyrius had built his own legend from the bones of the Solarius line.

Where Mortivax crushed, Soldraknirr outmaneuvered.

Where Mortivax burned, Soldraknirr outshone.

And yet—he had never fought alongside his brother as intended.

A shame.

Lyrius’ visor flickered as he scanned the city below, isolating movement, heat signatures, leyline disturbances. If the Starforge had been awakened, there would be traces—fractures in reality itself.

Nothing.

Not yet.

A voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Sire. We are positioned outside the eastern district. Vellmont’s watchtowers remain unmanned, but there is no sign of Wulfric."

Lyrius' lips curled into a smirk.

Of course there wasn’t.

The brute had no doubt realized exactly who had ordered this attack.

A shame he would be too late to stop it.

Lyrius flicked a control switch, opening comms.

"Hold position," he commanded, his voice smooth. Undeniable. "Send more scouts into the city. I want movement patterns, weaknesses in the defenses. And I want more eyes looking for the Starforge."

A pause. Then—

"...And Wulfric, sire?"

He exhaled, his voice a whisper of ironclad certainty, and then he smirked.

"Of course. We shall look for him as well."

The night sky was vast, an endless void of storm-gray clouds and distant stars.

Cutting through it like a falling spear was the Drakeguard Mech—a machine built in the image of a void-drake, but devoid of life, its metallic form humming with an unnatural stillness. Its wings, thin and bladed, were spread wide, adjusting their angles with silent precision, catching the wind with a predatory grace. Gold-glowing optics flickered along its streamlined, draconic body, scanning for hostiles as it carried its sole passenger.

The scout, a soldier of Wulfric’s ranks, clung to the mech’s back, half-frozen, half-broken.

His cloak had been shredded by the winds, his face marked with the deep lines of exhaustion. He had been riding the Drakeguard for more than two hours, its smooth, unfeeling armor offering no warmth, no comfort. His fingers had long since gone numb, his breath coming in ragged clouds as he fought to stay conscious.

But he had no choice.

His orders had been clear.

And now, finally, Elderwynd was in sight.

The watchtower guards were the first to spot him—a dark figure against the clouds, descending fast. The Drakeguard’s metal wings hissed as they cut through the sky, its talons shifting as it prepared to land.

"Void take me..." one of the guards muttered, gripping his spear.

An Emberclad rebel.Trouble.

At least—that’s what they thought at first.

Then, they saw the flag strapped to his back, snapping wildly in the wind. A banner of surrender.

"Hold fire!" the captain barked.

The guards hesitated but obeyed.

The Drakeguard landed in a crouch, its clawed feet scraping against the cobblestone. With a final, mechanical exhale, its wings folded in, the golden optics dimming.

The scout slid off its back like a man moments from death. He collapsed onto one knee, chest heaving, but forced himself upright. He had made it.

And now, he had to deliver the message.

Cedric of Elderwynd sat upon a carved stone seat, his fingers steepled before him. A man of broad shoulders, gray eyes, and the quiet weight of a ruler who had survived too much. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows across his face as he studied the wretched man before him.

The scout had been given water, a cloak, and time to catch his breath—but not much.

Now, he knelt, his voice hoarse as he spoke.

"Wulfric Blackmere sends word," he rasped. "The armies in Vellmont do not march under his command." He swallowed hard. "He requests aid. The Adventurer’s Guild. Your men. Anyone you can send."

The chamber was silent.

Cedric leaned back, expression unreadable.

A betrayal within the Emberclad?

Before he could speak—the doors opened.

Garett and Leona entered.

The chamber was heavy with silence, save for the quiet crackling of the hearth.

Garett’s brows furrowed deeply as he stared at the scout, the man’s face pale from exhaustion, yet resolute.

"You fight for Wulfric?" His voice was steady, but his knuckles had gone white where they gripped his belt. "You're telling me—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it. "—Wulfric Blackmere has been the leader of the Emberclad rebels all along?"

The scout hesitated, but only for a breath. "Aye, sir. He’s the one who’s been holding them together."

Garett took a step back, his mind reeling.

He turned sharply to Cedric, searching the Ealdorman’s worn, unreadable face for guidance.

Cedric said nothing, his gray eyes shadowed with thought. Beside him, Lyra stood with her arms crossed, her piercing gaze fixed on the scout. She had been silent up to now, watching, waiting.

Garett’s gaze flicked to Leona. "What do you think?"

She crossed her arms, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I think it’s a fucking trap."

The words landed like steel on stone.

The scout bristled, but Leona held up a hand.

"I’m not calling you a liar," she said, eyeing him carefully, "but this whole thing stinks of some greater scheme." She turned back to Garett. "Think about it—why would Wulfric come alone and unarmed after Elderwynd burned? If the Emberclad were responsible, why return to the ruins, knowing full well he’d be torn apart?"

She shook her head. "Doesn’t add up."

Garett remained silent, his mind racing.

She wasn’t wrong.

But—

The facts did line up. At least in his mind.

If Wulfric truly led the Emberclad, and if the traitor had acted without his consent, it would explain everything. The division. The sudden attack. The recklessness.

He took a breath.

The problem was that he didn’t know if he was thinking clearly.

Wulfric was his friend.

Was he just searching for a reason to believe him?

His jaw tensed. "Then what do we do?"

He turned back to Cedric.

"Do we help him?"

The Ealdorman finally stirred. His gaze moved from Garett to Leona, then to Lyra, before settling on the scout still kneeling before them.

Cedric exhaled heavily. "Elderwynd is in no state to help anyone, least of all Vellmont. We lack men, arms, and time." His voice was firm, unyielding. "Even if I wished to send aid, I could not."

The words settled in the chamber like a final toll of judgment.

Garett clenched his fists, but before he could speak, Lyra stepped forward.

"I will go," she said.

All eyes turned to her.

Cedric frowned. "Lyra—"

"No." Her tone was sharp, unyielding. "You have no forces to spare. But I do." She looked at Garett. "We both know Vellmont won’t stand on its own. Whatever the traitor is after, he means to claim it soon. If Wulfric is truly marching to stop him, then that means our enemy is already ahead of us."

She placed a hand on her staff. "And if Wulfric is lying? Then we kill him ourselves."

Garett studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

The decision had been made.

The fires of war burned anew.