The dreams returned—darker, heavier than before.
Ronan stood in a wasteland of bone and shadow, the sky above him torn open, bleeding stars like a wound in the heavens. In the distance, a black monolith rose from the ground, pulsing with the same eerie glow as the glyphs in the catacombs. Whispers surrounded him, circling like vultures around a corpse.
"Break the seal…"
"Unchain the abyss…"
"Become more…"
Then came the scream. Not human. Not beast. Something in-between—a sound of pain, rage, and unrelenting hunger.
He jolted awake, sweat clinging to his skin despite the cold stone of the stronghold chamber. Doomfang lay curled nearby, a low rumble of unease in his chest. The bond between them buzzed with tension. Something was coming.
And it wasn't just war.
The Gathering Flame
By mid-morning, word reached Ronan: a caravan of Forsaken survivors had arrived—refugees from the southern marshes. Dozens of them, half-starved and hunted. Among them was a name Ronan hadn't heard in years:
Elias Vane.
Once a noble heir cast out for bonding with a shadowbeast, Elias had vanished into the Hinterlands, rumored to have gone mad. Now he stood in the stronghold's great hall, cloaked in rags and shadow, flanked by a massive creature that shimmered like oil and smoke—Umbryl, a panther-wraith with six glowing eyes and claws like obsidian.
"Ronan," Elias said, voice like rusted steel. "You've stirred the kingdom like a hornet's nest."
"I had no choice," Ronan replied. "They forced our hand."
Elias chuckled. "You haven't even seen their hand yet. The High Houses have convened. They're sending someone worse than soldiers."
Kaela stepped forward, arms crossed. "Who?"
"The White Binder," Elias said, his tone grave. "An Archbeastbinder of the High Tribunal. He commands the Pale Choir."
The room fell silent. Even Kaela's face paled.
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "Tell me everything."
The Pale Choir
Elias spoke of a unit beyond legends—a battalion of silent warriors bound to spectral beasts, their voices stolen as part of an ancient oath. The Pale Choir didn't fight like men; they moved as one, spoke through their bond-beasts, and left only silence and ruin in their wake.
"They say the White Binder once fused with a Leviathan," Elias muttered, pouring dark wine into a chipped goblet. "Not temporarily. Permanently. His body is no longer his own. He is a walking paradox—both flesh and myth."
Kaela cursed under her breath.
"And they're coming here?" Ronan asked.
Elias nodded. "Not just to kill you. To unmake you. The Forsaken movement has grown beyond what they tolerate. You've become a symbol. And they hate symbols more than monsters."
Ronan paced slowly, hands behind his back. The path forward was narrowing.
"We need allies," he finally said. "Others like us. Outcasts. Broken warriors. The Wyrmblood tribes in the eastern canyons. The Duskborne mercenaries. Even the rogue beastbinders hiding in the Deeproot Wilds."
Kaela arched a brow. "You're planning to build an army of monsters and misfits."
"No," Ronan replied, golden eyes flashing. "I'm planning to build a new world."
Whispers in the Vault
That night, drawn by a feeling he couldn't name, Ronan returned to the catacombs. Alone.
The stone corridor felt different now—colder. As he descended past the broken glyphs, he noticed fresh markings etched into the walls. Claw marks. Symbols that hadn't been there before.
The air grew thick, heavy with something ancient.
Then he saw it.
A door of black stone, sealed with six rings of iron, each marked by a different creature—serpent, wolf, phoenix, kraken, dragon, and chimera. At the center was a circular depression. A keyhole unlike any he'd seen.
"The Obsidian Seal…" he whispered.
The moment the words left his lips, his mark—the Beastbinder's sigil on his chest—burned.
He stumbled back as visions assaulted him. A city of white towers sinking into a pit of flames. A beast the size of a mountain, its form shifting between scales and smoke. And voices—so many voices—screaming his name.
"Ronan…"
"You are not ready…"
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
Behind him, something moved.
A figure, draped in a cloak of feathers and bone, stepped from the shadows. Its face was hidden beneath a wooden mask carved like a wolf's skull. It said nothing.
But Ronan recognized it.
The Archivist.
A mythical figure said to guard the truth of the First Bindings.
"You've come far, Ronan of the Ash," the figure said. "But power without understanding is a blade with no hilt. Seek the truths lost to fire. Or be consumed by them."
And just like that, the figure was gone.