Somewhere in The Iron Dominion: Tharandor.

  The throne room smelled of burning oil and cold iron. King Alric sat forward on the throne, the heavy gold crown casting a shadow across his lined face. The massive doors groaned open, and General Hadrik stepped in, cloak dusted with road grime, armor dented from hard travel.

  The guards straightened. Alric waved them off.

  "You look like hell, Hadrik," the king said. "Come closer."

  The general obeyed, boots scuffing against the stone floor. When he reached the dais, he knelt, fist to chest.

  "Rise. Speak."

  Hadrik stood. His voice was rough from the road. "I returned as fast as I could, Your Majesty. There's something you need to hear."

  Alric’s fingers drummed against the throne. "Out with it."

  "In Veylan," Hadrik said, naming the neighboring kingdom, "I felt it. Not a rumor, not a story—I felt it. The demon lord. His presence, like a hand around my throat. He’s back. Or he’s close enough it makes no difference."

  Silence settled over the hall. The braziers crackled. Alric’s jaw tightened.

  "You’re sure?" the king asked, voice low.

  Hadrik nodded once. "As sure as I know the weight of my own sword."

  Alric stood slowly. The crown caught the light, glinting like a blade drawn.

  Alric didn’t answer right away. He stepped down from the throne, each step echoing. "The oracle spoke in riddles. She said, ‘The shadow that fell will rise again, not from the pit, but from the womb.’ I thought it metaphor."

  "Most prophecy is," Hadrik muttered.

  "Not this time."

  Alric stopped in front of him. He wasn’t a tall man, but the way he carried himself made him feel like he filled the room.

  "Did you see anything in Veylan?" the king asked. "Signs, symbols, faces that didn’t belong?"

  Hadrik’s eyes were hard. “I didn’t see anyone. Just… felt it. Like walking through smoke that wasn’t there. Heavy. Bitter. The same feeling recorded in the old journals from the last war with Asatoth.”

  Alric leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. “That was four generations ago. You weren’t alive then.”

  “I know. But I’ve read the field notes. I’ve walked the battlegrounds. And what I felt near Veylan—it matched the old accounts too closely to ignore.”

  Alric said nothing.

  “And it’s not just the feeling,” Hadrik continued. “There are sightings. Creatures—monsters from the old age—surfacing again. I saw a bramble fiend near the River Wane. It didn’t attack. It just stood there. Watched me. Then sank back into the earth.”

  Alric’s brow furrowed. “Brambles haven’t risen in over a century.”

  “Exactly. Elsewhere, a glass-walker was spotted by scouts near the border. Same story—no aggression. Just… appearing. And disappearing.”

  Alric stood slowly, the weight of the crown pressing harder now. He stepped toward the window, the twilight spilling across the hills.

  “The oracle said the fall of Asatoth would not be the end. That evil like his seeps into stone and blood. That one day, the world would remember him—not through resurrection, but inheritance.”

  He turned back to Hadrik.

  "We must tell the others of this and send the church knights out.”

  The black banners of Tharandor flew at half-mast as the messengers rode out, each carrying a sealed letter stamped with the king’s broken crown sigil.

  The Kingdom of Veylan

  Queen Maerith of Veylan read the letter in the hall of her keep, firelight flickering against the stone walls. Her hand trembled only slightly as she lowered the parchment.

  "The shadow returns," she whispered. Around her, the court stilled. No one dared speak.

  She rose from her chair, skirts whispering over the flagstones. "Summon the council. Send word back to Tharandor. Tell King Alric I will come."

  Her voice was steady, but those closest to her saw the fear in her eyes.

  The Freeholds of Carrick

  High King Brennor read the letter atop his mountain stronghold, a deep scowl cutting into his weathered face. His iron gauntlet crushed the parchment in his fist.

  "Demonspawn," he growled. "Not again."

  He turned to his war captains. "Ready the banners. We ride for Tharandor at first light."

  One of his younger commanders hesitated. "Your Grace, are you sure—"

  Brennor fixed him with a glare. "If Alric calls a gathering, it’s no empty threat. I’ll not have Carrick be the fool that waited too long."

  The Silver Coast of Eldrin

  Queen Selene of Eldrin sat beneath the crystal dome of her throne room, staring at the letter for a long moment, her fingers tightening around its edges.

  "Old monsters," she murmured. "Old sins."

  She rose, her silver crown catching the moonlight.

  "Prepare the fleet. We sail for Tharandor before the tides turn."

  Her council bowed, but behind their formalities, they exchanged worried glances. In living memory, Selene had never looked afraid—until now.

  The Verdant Marches

  King Roric of the Marches stood at the edge of the great wilds, the letter still in his hand, the winds snapping it against his fingers.

  Behind him, druids and hunters waited.

  "Four generations," Roric said quietly. "We thought it was over. We were fools."

  He tucked the letter into his belt, face hardening.

  "Send word. Tell Tharandor I will answer the call. And may the gods have mercy on us all."

  The trees seemed to shudder at his words, as if even the forest could sense what was coming.

  Back at Tharandor

  By nightfall, ravens arrived from each of them. Each bore the same answer:

  They would come.

  And they were afraid.

  The skies above Tharandor hung heavy and gray when the banners of the four kingdoms crested the horizon.

  They came armed and wary — no ruler trusted the road now. Warbands and honor guards filled the courtyard, banners snapping in the rising wind.

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  In the throne room, King Alric waited beneath the iron arches, seated at the long stone table carved for times of war. One by one, the rulers entered.

  Queen Maerith of Veylan came first, wrapped in a cloak of deep blue, her expression sharp and closed. She offered Alric a stiff nod and took her place without a word.

  High King Brennor of Carrick stomped in next, his boots loud against the stone. His battered mail gleamed dully in the firelight, and he threw a hard glance at everyone in the room before grunting and sitting down.

  Queen Selene of Eldrin drifted in silently, silver and sea-green robes flowing behind her. Her commanders followed like shadows, faces pale, hands near their hilts.

  Last was King Roric of the Verdant Marches, smelling of earth and rain, a circlet of twisted ashwood on his brow. He paused at the door, eyeing the others with the suspicion of a man who trusted none of them — and with good reason.

  When the doors thudded shut, Alric rose.

  "You all received my summons," he said. His voice, hard and clear, filled the hall. "You know why you're here."

  Silence stretched.

  "The old evil stirs," Alric went on. "Signs we thought buried — rising again. Creatures walking the land that should be dust. Shadows thickening where none should be."

  He glanced at Hadrik, who stepped forward, armor still dusted with the road.

  "I felt it," Hadrik said. "And I’m not alone. Scouts, hunters, priests — all report the same. The taint of Asatoth clings to the land again."

  Queen Maerith’s voice cut the stillness. "And what of the Demon Folk?"

  The question hung like a blade in the air.

  King Roric shifted uneasily. "In the Marches, they’re... changing. Less fearful. Less meek. They gather in groups. Whisper among themselves. They’ve made no attacks, but..." He shook his head. "They are not what they were."

  "In Eldrin as well," Queen Selene said, her voice cool. "The Demon Folk refuse to bow. Some have even abandoned their labors. They speak of freedom — loudly."

  Brennor let out a harsh laugh. "Freedom? From what? Their chains were mercy. Without them, they’ll run straight back to blood and ruin."

  "They’ve committed no violence," Selene said sharply. "Not yet."

  "Yet," Brennor growled. "Mark that word well."

  Alric raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument.

  "We cannot ignore it. The Demon Folk were born of the old kingdoms — of Asatoth's reign. If something stirs in his bloodline, it could stir in them too."

  Queen Maerith's fingers tapped the table, once, sharply. "They were once his subjects. Some of them might still carry his stain in their veins."

  "But we cannot accuse them all," Selene said. "Not without proof. Or we’ll drive them to become the enemy we fear."

  Another heavy pause. The fire crackled.

  Alric leaned forward. "We do not have the luxury of hope. Nor the right to strike blindly. We must be cautious — but not slow."

  He straightened.

  "The Demon Folk will be watched. Those who defy the laws will be taken. Quietly. The rest... for now, we leave untouched."

  "And the child?" Roric asked. "The lineage?"

  Alric’s eyes darkened. "We find it. Before it finds us."

  No one argued. They could all feel it — the storm already rising beyond their walls.

  The great hall emptied slowly. One by one, the rulers withdrew to their appointed chambers, their guards lingering at the doors like silent warnings.

  But not all returned to solitude.

  Deep in the winding passages beneath the throne room, three figures met in the shadow of the old catacombs — where no servant would dare wander, and no words would carry to listening ears.

  High King Brennor pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them onto a nearby barrel. His fists were scarred and hard, much like his thinking.

  "This is madness," he said, voice low. "Waiting. Watching. Hoping these half-bloods don’t turn on us."

  Queen Maerith leaned against the damp stone wall, arms crossed, her expression cold. "Alric has always been too cautious. Always believing you can contain a storm by talking to it."

  King Roric stood a few paces away, silent for a long moment. His cloak stirred in the draft like a living thing.

  "They’re organizing," Roric said finally. "The Demon Folk. Calling each other brothers and sisters. Speaking of bloodlines and old rights. I have seen it myself."

  Brennor snorted. "Rights? They were born under Asatoth’s heel. There’s no saving them. No taming them. If we wait, we'll find ourselves gutted in our beds."

  Maerith’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "You speak of action."

  Brennor nodded grimly. "A purge. Quiet. Fast. Before they have time to rally."

  Roric frowned. "Alric forbade it."

  "Alric plays at wisdom," Brennor growled. "But fear makes fools of kings."

  Maerith’s mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You propose an alliance."

  "I propose survival," Brennor said.

  Roric shifted, uneasy. His loyalty to the old ways warred with the creeping fear in his gut.

  "If we strike at them without proof," he said, "we could ignite something far worse."

  Brennor stepped closer, his voice a rough whisper. "If we do nothing, we die. If we act now, we live."

  A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the drip of water from the stone above.

  Finally, Maerith pushed off the wall. "I will not wait to be hunted by demons wearing human skin."

  She extended her hand.

  Brennor gripped it without hesitation.

  After a long, tense moment, Roric grasped it too — grim, reluctant, but committed.

  The pact was made.

  A few days have passed since the meetings of the kings and queens.

  General Hadrik pushed through the heavy doors of the war room, boots dripping rain onto the stone floor. Two guards glanced up but wisely kept their heads down.

  King Alric stood at the broad map table, half-shadowed by firelight, studying the spread of parchment reports. He didn’t lift his head.

  "You’re late," Alric said.

  "I bring worse things than lateness," Hadrik answered, tossing a damp scroll onto the table.

  Alric arched an eyebrow but unrolled the parchment anyway, scanning the crude handwriting.

  Hadrik crossed the room in a few long strides. "A guild party—rookies, green as spring—stumbled into something near Lacross. Not in the city. Out in the wilds. They fought off a bandit camp. Nothing unusual there."

  Alric looked up sharply. "If it were nothing, you wouldn't be storming in like the sky was falling."

  Hadrik’s mouth tightened into a grim line.

  "They found a beast," he said. "Locked in a cage the bandits were guarding. They freed it. Without knowing what it was."

  Alric’s hand stilled on the parchment. "What kind of beast?"

  Hadrik’s voice dropped. "An Umbra Wolf."

  The words hit the room like a hammer.

  Alric stood up fully, the full weight of his crown catching the firelight.

  "You're certain?"

  “The guild report matches everything in the old records. The size. The way it moved—like smoke wearing the shape of a wolf. Eyes like coals. Shadows that clung to it even under open sky."

  Alric’s face hardened. "And they lived to tell it?"

  Hadrik nodded, though he seemed just as unsettled.

  "They say it spoke to them. Calmly. Said it wasn’t interested in killing. Said it was bored."

  Alric’s jaw clenched.

  "Since when do the spawn of Asatoth feel boredom?" he muttered.

  "Maybe it's worse than that," Hadrik said. "Maybe it's waiting."

  A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant mutter of thunder.

  “...The Church is going to have to send out: The Judges.” Asatoth mumbled to himself. “Send word to the others and tell the church.”

  “As you wish.”

  The Crimson Blades had taken a quest they now regretted accepting. Strange reports spoke of the dead clawing their way from graves in a forgotten town west of Lacross—and they were tasked with ending it.

  As they approached the town, a heavy silence fell over them. No guards manned the gates. No merchants called from their stalls. Not even the caw of a raven or the whisper of livestock in the fields. Only emptiness.

  The streets beyond the gate looked abandoned for days, windows smashed or left ajar, doors swinging in the breeze. The air reeked faintly of decay.

  They exchanged grim looks and decided to split into pairs, weapons drawn, senses sharpened. Every creak of old wood, every distant rustle felt like something ready to pounce.

  It was Nova and Everah who found them first—near the crumbling church at the heart of the town. They called out urgently, summoning Nebula and Severus to their side.

  What they saw made their blood run cold.

  A congregation of corpses shuffled around the broken ruins, their flesh pallid and torn, some dragging shattered limbs behind them. Hollow eyes stared blankly ahead, but some seemed almost... aware. As if a dim, cruel intelligence flickered in their rotted brains.

  The air grew colder the closer they approached, and the stench of disturbed graves filled their lungs.

  The Crimson Blades didn’t wait for the horror to reach them.

  Steel and magic clashed against bone and rotten flesh. The undead were slow, but numerous, and the sheer wrongness of fighting what were once villagers gnawed at their spirits. One misstep, one slip of focus, and a bite could mean a fate worse than death.

  They fought with grim determination, blades flashing under the gray sky, until finally the last of the creatures fell—and the churchyard fell silent once more.

  But the unease lingered. Something had raised these dead... and it was still out there.

  “We found the undead, but where are the people at?” Nova asked, looking at the bodies on the ground.

  “Maybe they ran away?” Severus spoke as he was looking inside the church.

  “I sure hope so..” Nebula sighed, looking around the place.

  “We may get an answer.” Severus told them as he pulled the door off. “We have a kid in here, alive.”