Dawn’s light came strangled, its rays dimmed beneath boughs that choked the sky.

  For four days they had marched, guided by stars and maps.

  But neither gave answer for the terrain they were about to enter.

  Alric reined in his horse at the threshold, eyes narrowing at the broken geometry before him. The army halted in kind.

  Behind him, murmurs stirred.

  Some men whispered prayers beneath their breaths and traced holy signs in the air with their fingers.

  Others spat on the ground and clutched their weapons tighter.

  Even some Hekatons bowed their heads. Nobody knew if in prayer or supplication.

  The forest ahead did not match the terrain scratched in any map they carried.

  No ridge aligned. No slope descended as it should have. Even the trees, bent by winds that never blew, curled in ways only a world unlaced from the natural order could follow.

  The ever-present fog hung thick across the timberline, veiling all things in blurred horizons.

  He’d read the reports.

  The survivors’ writings recounted a place where reason came to dig its grave, and perception followed in elegiac procession.

  But all accounts agreed on one truth: none knew how they got out.

  Just an assortment of sparse feelings and demented ramblings accompanied these final recollections.

  It was as if something had shattered their clarity and sifted daze through the shards.

  And now that he stood at its edge, Alric couldn’t name what he felt.

  Alienation, perhaps.

  Dread? Something close to fear?

  Likely.

  But whatever it was, it stirred beneath the skin like an old, fraying garment.

  “Remember what I told you four days ago,” he said.

  She didn’t answer at first, eyes still locked on the treeline.

  Then, quiet, wary.

  “Maybe your ghost stories and mist were real after all, commander.”

  No jeer followed. Neither did any smile touch her lips.

  Alric cast her a brief glance, faintly amused and measured.

  A first to hear her voice so stripped of scorn. A welcome shift amidst the bleakness.

  “So, you were listening. Good.“

  Her eyes found his for a moment, hard and unreadable. Then she scoffed in his face.

  It almost made him smile.

  Even now, you still have venom to spare for me. The thought came with a flicker of grim humour.

  Then he turned toward his men, his eyes sweeping over the rows of disciplined steel.

  “We have bled for three years to conquer the South,” he began, voice steady. “Now we march to reclaim what is ours: families. Friends. Freedom. Identity.”

  He gestured to the forested curse behind him.

  “But if we are to return to our throne and soil, we must pass through there.”

  Some clenched their jaws. Others saluted the twin-headed falcon overhead. A few simply watched him in silence.

  “Spear and shield will be our guides through this cursed path.” His voice rose.

  “If you falter, your brother will lift you.

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  If your sight fails, his will steady your steps.

  If your heart trembles, his will lend it iron.

  For you have cracked a thousand shields together, and still, your heart beats with heaven’s thunder!”

  Now shouting.

  “WE ARE THE SIXTH AND THIRD LEGIONS OF THE VALEKYRIAN EMPIRE!

  STEEL-BOUND AND WASHED IN BLOOD.

  WE BREAK SOVEREIGNS AND SPLINTER CITIES.

  WE ARE THE SUN-WREATHED LIGHTNING!”

  His fist rose to the sky, and in answer, the army bellowed back with the force of crouching lions readying for the storm.

  As the echoes faded into fog, her voice cut through.

  “Beautiful words, Commander. Truly.”

  He half-turned, eye catching hers.

  “Home. Family. Friends. Even identity,” she repeated. “How many did you burn to claim yours, I wonder?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, looking past him, into the Crag.

  “Lead the way, then. Let’s see how many whispers it takes for your steel to shatter.”

  He said nothing.

  And for a moment, the fog seemed to thicken between them, as though the place itself had leaned closer to listen.

  Though her words carried truth and bite, he held no care to quarrel.

  Alric had already decided how to proceed with her.

  He turned again to the path ahead.

  “Form ranks.”

  The nearby Hekatons echoed the command, and the men obeyed.

  Each flank tightening in solemn order, a cathedral choir of sinew and grit.

  He spurred his horse forward and cried,

  “Advance!”

  The thudding of sabatons and hooves followed, steady at first, but growing softer the closer they got to the Crag’s threshold.

  The first row entered alongside him.

  Bark swallowed them whole, their shapes dissolving into blurred forms.

  Each tree towered above the soldiers, their branches intertwining with others to form a web of wood and leaves. Overgrown moss clung in drooping patches like rotting curtains.

  “Commander…” Priscilla called out, but the sound faltered mid-way.

  It was as if they had stepped into a wool padded tomb, where sound died barely a stride from its maker.

  Even the rattling of his own chainmail had become stifled and dull.

  Sound had been sapped of all vigour, leaving whispers in its place.

  Alric recognized it immediately.

  This sort of all-devouring silence was the same as the circle’s in Khal-Drathir. Or at least, something akin to it.

  “What is it?”

  At the edge of his vision, he caught her troubled look.

  “Above,” she said curtly.

  Alric lifted his eyes.

  Watchful darkness peered back.

  An uncountable number of dark-feathered birds hung upside-down from every crooked timber, heads inverted, gaze cast on the world below.

  None moved or stirred. Their glazed eyes caught the firelight like dead glass.

  Alric took it all in, and slowly exhaled through his nose.

  “Do you see them as well?” he asked.

  “Yes,” her reply came clipped.

  “Then they are no mere hallucination.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe we’ve lost our minds together.” A half-smirk played on her lips.

  He gestured to Klethiar.

  The young officer came near with his horse.

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “Look skyward and tell me what you see.”

  He did as commanded and craned his neck.

  His posture stiffened, hands tightening around the reins.

  He remained like that for a moment, then spoke.

  “I see an innumerable number of crows, my Lord.”

  Alric saw his face harden, eyebrows furrowing in unease.

  “Keep your eyes forward.”

  Klethiar turned back to him and saluted.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Aren’t you glad, Commander? We’re not mad yet.”

  Her sarcastic remark fell on deaf ears, as his mind had already gone somewhere else. His thoughts tangled in flashes of recollections he had not summoned.

  His father’s voice. A child’s laugh. A market crier humming while cooking a stew. The ringing bells of Valekyr at midday. His first taste of strong liquor. His first taste of a woman’s body.

  None of them belonged here. Not beneath this canopy of cursed crows. And yet, they assaulted him nonetheless.

  It was as if something had taken the reins of his consciousness and ridden it haphazardly.

  “How do you feel?” he asked her quietly.

  “How do you expect? I feel awful.”

  “Mind, body, or both?”

  “Why do you care? Are you feeling ill?” she shot back, impatient.

  “I might be. Yes.”

  She turned her head and studied him.

  After a pause that lingered just a breath too long, she spoke.

  “My body is still reeling from what you and your men did to me four days ago. But it’s my mind that frightens me.” She gave a brittle, mirthless chuckle. “I feel confused. My own thoughts startle me. It’s as if I can feel my mind slipping, but I can’t stop it. There. Have I answered you now?”

  Her voice barely made it to him, snuffed out by the muting air.

  He regarded her in silence, unease flickering beneath his usual mask of control.

  “How candid of you. Too much in fact.”

  She managed a small, crooked smile.

  “I’m afraid, Commander.”

  The words startled even her, as though she had betrayed herself by speaking them aloud. She looked away quickly, lips pressed tight.

  Alric said nothing for a time.

  At last, he beckoned to Klethiar again.

  The young officer hesitated, then urged his horse forward.

  “Lord Commander.” He said, voice tight.

  “How’s your mind?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then forced himself to honesty.

  “Very confused, my Lord.” The words were halting.

  “This place is corrupting our minds then.” His eyes shifted briefly to the Hekatons.

  “Have the entire army sing. Cycle through our war songs. None is to be excused from this duty. If any lack the breath to sing, let them hum. I will do the same.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Klethiar saluted crisply and wheeled his horse away, riding down the line to deliver the command.

  Alric remained still in his saddle, fog pressing in on all sides.

  Then, he began to sing.

  A low, steady line. One learned by every soldier since boyhood.

  “Ours the flame that does not yield…”

  Priscilla turned toward him, wide-eyed, as though she no longer recognized the man beside her.

  The closest men to him followed immediately after they heard him.

  A ripple of fading melody crept across the two legions like a silence-defying tide.

  Though he could not hear beyond a stone’s throw away from him, he could see the song move through his men’s mouths and lifted chins.

  And so, they marched on.