The silence after battle was always the loudest.
Ronan stood in the fading light of dawn, gazing over the scorched earth that once bore the fury of clashing wills. Smoke curled lazily from the broken remnants of the Hunters' siege engines. Crimson stained the soil, mingling with shattered steel, and the cries of the dying had long since faded into the groans of wounded survivors.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, one clawed hand resting on Doomfang's shoulder, but the exhaustion that washed over him now was heavier than any armor.
"We survived," said a familiar voice behind him. It was Kaela, the crimson-eyed tactician, her cloak soaked with blood—not all of it her own. "Barely."
Ronan turned slightly, his face grim. "That was only a scouting force. A warning."
Kaela nodded. "I know. But we needed this victory. The Forsaken believe in you now. You gave them something the world never did—hope."
He looked down at his hands, still slick with the blood of men and monsters. "Hope," he repeated, almost bitterly. "It's a fragile thing."
But fragile or not, it had taken root. Ronan could see it in the way the others looked at him now. Not just as a beastbinder or a fellow outcast—but as a leader. The weight of that truth settled on his shoulders like a yoke, but he didn't shy away from it.
He couldn't.
The Whispering One
Later that evening, as Ronan wandered the broken halls of the stronghold alone, the ancient stones seemed to hum with a presence—a voice, faint and whispering, curling like smoke at the edge of his mind.
He paused near an old corridor that had collapsed during the battle, a jagged split in the earth revealing the catacombs beneath. The stone walls there were etched with glyphs, faintly glowing with an eerie blue light that pulsed with life.
Doomfang's voice echoed in his mind, heavy with caution.
"There is something old here. Something forgotten… and dangerous."
Ronan crouched, running a hand along the edge of the broken stone. As his fingers brushed the glyphs, the shadows thickened, coalescing into a figure—a phantom wreathed in flowing black tendrils. It was neither living nor dead, its form flickering like a dying flame.
"Beastbinder," it whispered, voice like cracking ice. "Heir of the Abyss… do you hear them calling?"
Ronan stiffened. "What are you?"
"A memory… a fragment of the First Binder. Bound to this place since the Great Sundering. You awakened what sleeps beneath, and now… it hungers."
The shadows surged forward, tendrils grazing his arms. He didn't flinch, but his pulse quickened. Doomfang growled from above, wings flaring in warning.
"Do not fear the dark," the entity said. "Fear the echoes of those who tried to silence it. You think the Noble Houses are your enemy? No, child. They are maggots, feeding on the corpse of a kingdom."
Ronan's fists clenched. "Speak plainly."
"Beneath this world… something stirs. Something even the Nobles fear. They buried it. Bound it in chains of flame and oath. But you… you can free it. And in doing so, gain a power that no man—no god—can rival."
The shadow began to fade, but its last words etched themselves into Ronan's bones:
"Find the Obsidian Seal. Break it. Or this war will be nothing more than a funeral pyre."
Cracks Within
Ronan didn't speak of the vision. Not yet. He needed time to understand what he had seen. But there were other fires to put out.
Tensions had risen among the Forsaken in the aftermath of victory. With fresh supplies looted from the Hunters, greed had taken root in some. Fights broke out over armor, weapons, even scraps of food. A few leaders—former bandits turned warriors—had begun to carve out power among the ranks, ignoring Ronan's command structure.
One of them, Varik, a towering brute with a brand of the Kingdom burned into his chest, had even started calling himself "Warlord of the West Wing."
When Ronan confronted him, the stronghold grew still.
"I built this force," Varik spat, slamming his gauntleted fist into a stone pillar. "While you were off playing prophet in the woods, I was bleeding in the trenches. These men follow me."
Ronan stepped forward, golden eyes locked on his. "They follow strength. So prove it."
The circle that formed was immediate. No weapons. No beasts. Just fists and will.
Varik came at him like a beast, fists swinging in wild arcs, shouting curses with every blow. He was strong. Too strong for a normal man.
But Ronan was no longer just a man.
He dodged, ducked, let the blows graze him—then struck with brutal precision. One blow to the ribs. Another to the throat. The final strike cracked against Varik's jaw, dropping the warlord like a felled tree.
Silence followed. Then, slowly, the Forsaken dropped to one knee.
The Night Before the Next Storm
As the fortress quieted again, Ronan stood atop its highest tower. The wind was colder tonight, sharper. He could feel the storm approaching—not just from the Nobles, but from within.
He was building something dangerous. A rebellion. A legend. A weapon.
And that kind of power always came with a price.
Kaela joined him after a while, her red eyes watching him with quiet concern. "The Hunters won't stop. You know that."
"I don't want them to," Ronan said, watching the horizon where the stars began to vanish behind clouds. "Let them come. Let them all come."
She was silent for a long time. "I saw you today. In the catacombs. Something changed, didn't it?"
He looked at her, hesitated, then nodded once. "There's more to this war than we thought. The Nobles… they're keeping something buried. Something monstrous."
Kaela's hand tightened on her blade. "Then we dig it up."