After the encounter with Jemot in the clearing, Sebastian was beside himself. A cold, oily dread settled in his marrow. He was being forced to do unthinkable things just to save his own skin. This went against every instinct he possessed, the lifelong creed of never sticking out, of minding his own, and of fading into the background of a quiet life. He did not return to the comforts of West Port. Instead, he marched his men further south toward a small hamlet near the borders of the elven lands. The rhythmic thud and crunch of their boots on the frost-hardened ground sounded like a funeral march.

  The Luna Stala wasted no time. Before the sun had even fully crested the trees, they made examples of two of his men in front of the company. The air was filled with the wet, metallic scent of fresh blood and the panicked lowing of livestock. Sebastian retreated to his tent, his vision blurring, after ordering his men to slaughter anyone who resisted. Alone in the dim canvas light, he retched violently. The copper tang of bile burned his throat. His stomach churned as his thoughts fought against themselves. It was a frantic, trapped-animal loop of guilt and survival. When the slaughter outside finally ebbed into a heavy silence, he retched again. His knees hit the dirt as he pictured what they had just done out of sheer, shivering fear of the Luna Stala.

  They moved across the western expanse like a rolling bruise, killing all who opposed them and taking captive those who lacked the strength to resist. After the third battle, the smell of woodsmoke and wet iron clinging to their wool cloaks, two of his men attempted to slip away into the night. But the creatures of the night were faster. They tracked the deserters through the thickets, killing one in a spray of crimson and dragging the other back to Sebastian’s feet.

  “The Massster wishesss for you to make an exaaample of him,” they hissed in unison. Their voices did not come from a single throat. It was a discordant harmony, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone and the wet clicking of predatory tongues. It scratched at the insides of his ears.

  “How?” Sebastian whispered, his voice cracking.

  “The Massster wishesss for you to ssstring him up, and filet hisss ssskin from hisss flesh.”

  “I can’t do that,” Sebastian stammered, his hands shaking as he clutched his belt. “I won’t!”

  One of the creatures reached out a formless hand, its substance passing through the shadows of the tent like smoke through a keyhole. For a split second, its claws solidified. They were jagged and obsidian-dark. They raked across the Captain’s torso. Four searing lines of fire erupted across his chest. Sebastian gasped. The air biting, it filled his lungs as the agony radiated through his entire body.

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  “You will,” the beast whispered, its presence receding back into the pooling shadows in the corners of the tent.

  Over the next several moon cycles, the man they called "Capt" became a plague. Under Jemot’s whispered orders, he fell upon the small hovels of the western front, striking every village left vulnerable by the distant Peacekeepers. At first, he offered parley, his voice hollow as he stood before village elders. But one after another, they chose to fight, and one after another, they fell.

  The air in the western reaches became a permanent haze of stinging woodsmoke and the sharp, hot scent of worked iron. Those who fought were slaughtered where they stood. The women and children were driven into the suffocating heat of the smithies to forge the blackened chain mail of a new army. The men who survived were broken and reborn as conscripts, forced to march by the whip-crack of fear. They feared the blade. They feared their loved ones being unmade. Fear drove them, but as the weeks bled into months, Sebastian saw a darker change. Some of them began to enjoy the scent of the hunt.

  Every act of defiance from the Captain was met with precise, agonizing pain. Each strike from Jemot’s henchmen left a fresh scar upon his soul until the man who loved dwarven ale and quiet afternoons was buried under layers of scar tissue.

  Sebastian divided his forces, moving like a ghost through the territory. In eight months, he had amassed thousands. They were a grim, silent collection of hardened hunters and desperate plow-hands. He ruled through the smell of blood and the soul-piercing sound of screams. On nights when the men’s courage wavered and the campfire talk turned to desertion, he paraded the Luna Stala through the camp. Their shifting, formless silhouettes were a silent promise of a death that would not be quick.

  To desert was to meet a slow end. Sebastian would stake traitors out and peel the skin from their flesh with a steady hand, starting at the toes. He worked with a surgical, terrifying patience. He paused to wait for the men to wake if they passed out, ensuring the entire camp heard every wet snap and every choked plea of the unmaking.

  By the first frost of autumn, the land west of the Kilgor was a graveyard of charcoal and ash. He had conscripted every able body from the frosty, jagged north to the verdant edge of the elven domain. He maintained a suffocating grip on the roads, letting none escape his net to warn the crown of the blight swiftly swallowing the west.

  Twelve regiments stood ready, a sea of iron and hate. Sebastian gathered his main force near Oaken Meadow, camping a day's march from the great gate. The edge of the Attikì Mountains marked the western front. His net was spread wide, from the edges of the elven forest of Myrkvier to the northern icy seas. Soon, his forces would crush the outer cities, and his ranks would swell enough to lay siege to the capital itself.

  He sat alone in his tent, his scarred palm itching with a phantom, rhythmic heat. With a steady hand, he sent out the final message. The attacks would begin on the eve of the new moon.