The air in the Hall of Thrones was stale, thick with the scent of cold steel, ink, and unease. Golden sun pierced through the stained glass above, casting blood-red shapes on the polished floor. Twelve officials sat in a crescent before the empty throne, the seat of the Emperor.
None spoke.
"State your name and purpose," barked Lord Varran, the High Adjutant.
"Captain Halrix, rider of the Northern Legion.
Murmurs stirred the chamber. The Western Watchtower was no minor outpost — it guarded the Veilpath Pass, Vordania's key access to Elyndor
Halrix's voice trembled, but he forced it out.
"My lords… the watchtower is gone."
Eyes narrowed. Lord Serik leaned forward. "We heard you, Explain."
Halrix swallowed hard. "Massacred. Burned. There are no survivors."
The room fell still again, like the moment before a storm.
"How many stationed?" asked Varran.
"Three hundred and twenty-seven Vordanian soldiers," Halrix replied. "All found dead. No… they weren't simply killed. They were butchered. Torn apart. Slaughtered like animals."
He paused, trying to steady his breath. "Some were flayed. Limbs severed with crude blades. Others… gutted and left hanging from the watchtower walls like banners."
Gasps echoed. Lady Cynra covered her mouth.
Halrix continued. "Dozens had tongues cut out. Eyes gouged. One was impaled with his own standard pole. They didn't just die in battle. This was a message."
"Who would do such a thing?" Lord Serik muttered, shaken.
"We… don't know. There were no enemy banners, no survivors among the attackers. Only their mark — burned into the flesh of our men. A blackened tree, roots twisted into a noose."
The chamber fell into a deeper silence. That mark wasn't known in the empire. A new enemy.
Lord Varran stood. "We need specifics, Captain. Was this an army? Raiders?"
"It wasn't an army," Halrix said. "We estimate between two hundred to three hundred attackers. Bandits maybe, but coordinated. Merciless. They attacked in the dead of night — the tower was aflame before the horns could sound. Our soldiers were dragged into the courtyard and—"
He hesitated. "Some were… used for sport. One had his intestines pulled out and nailed across the gates. His eyes were stitched open so he'd see it before death."
Lady Cynra retched and fled the chamber.
Lord Thoran clenched his jaw. "This wasn't just slaughter. It was cruelty."
"A warning," muttered Varran. "They want us to know they're coming."
Captain Halrix reached into his satchel and removed a bloodied scrap of parchment. He handed it to Lord Serik.
"Found this nailed to the charred remains of the watchtower commander. Written in blood."
Serik read aloud:
"We are the roots that grow in shadow. We are the ash in your lungs. Vordros will fall. Not today. But soon. Watch the sky."
A silence colder than death swept through the chamber.
Lord Varran turned to the others. "This is no random raid. This is declaration. Coordinated. Deliberate."
"Who would dare such insolence?" Lord Thoran spat. "These savages think they can march against the Empire?"
Halrix, still kneeling, looked up. "My lords… what shall I do?"
Lord Varran paused, then gave a single command.
"Return to your legion. And ride for the palace."
"Palace?"
"You are to inform the Emperor himself."
The chamber dimmed at those words.
Aurelian Voss had not been seen in weeks
. His court operated from the Hall of Thrones. But now... now he must be told.
The Western Watchtower sat beneath a bruised sky, its stone limbs stretching toward dusk. Soldiers of Vordania milled about the courtyard, cleaning blades, gambling, eating burned rations. Laughter echoed off the walls.
"I'm telling you," one muttered, chewing on charred meat. "One more month on this cursed rock, and I'll lose my mind."
"Be glad," another replied. "No screams. No blood. Just boredom."
They never heard the first scream—only the silence that followed.
A gust of wind extinguished every torch on the west wall. Darkness swallowed stone.
And then—hell opened.
A figure dropped from the battlements, landing in silence. The first soldier to spot it took a step back—his throat was slit before he could cry out. Another turned just in time to see his friend's head yanked off, spine dangling like a tail.
A horn sounded—but was silenced with an arrow to the mouth.
From the treeline came nightmares: cloaked killers wrapped in bone and iron, their faces hidden behind snarling masks. Their blades were serrated, rusted, cruel. Their movements inhuman. This was the Iron Howl.
They didn't march. They descended.
The first squad was met in the courtyard. One Howler leapt from the shadows, burying a meat hook in a soldier's cheek and dragging him screaming across the gravel. Another Howler pinned a man down and drove a spiked hammer into his groin, again and again, until the body went limp.
"TO ARMS!" a commander shouted, only to be drowned in a geyser of his own blood as a cleaver sank into his mouth and split his head in two.
The soldiers of Vordania fought back—but for every sword raised, five were severed. Their blades met no resistance—the Iron Howl danced around them, struck through ribs, split jaws, and crushed kneecaps beneath war picks.
At the center, strode death itself—Velka, Commander of the Iron howl.
Twin curved blades in hand, her armor marked with claw sigils, she spun through the chaos like a storm. Her swords screamed as they sliced flesh and snapped bone. A young soldier swung at her—she caught the blade on her vambrace, drove her knee into his stomach, and slit his throat open, letting blood spill across her chest like warpaint.
"No mercy," she muttered. "No survivors."
She wasn't killing soldiers. She was composing art from carnage.
Some of her Howlers shoved soldiers into a fire pit, where they writhed and howled. Others dragged men to the walls and nailed their tongues to stone. One was skinned from scalp to chest and left hanging like a butcher's prize.
By the inner barracks, a group of soldiers huddled with spears.
Velka approached, blade dragging behind her.
One shouted, "STAND FIRM!"
Velka threw a hatchet. It sank between his eyes.
She lunged into the rest, her blades spinning, slicing open abdomens and peeling skin from bone. One she left with both legs hacked off, crawling through his own intestines.
Outside the command post, an officer cried for backup. He was tackled, stripped, and impaled through his spine with a jagged rod. His mouth was forced open, and dirt packed in until he suffocated.
All around, the Iron Howl drowned the tower in screams.
A Howler ripped off a soldier's helmet and bit into his neck, tearing chunks with sharpened teeth.
One hung a body upside down and carved the words "Breathe Us" across the chest with a branding iron.
The tower's central wall exploded—barrels of pitch lit from within. The flames rose as high as the banners, and the smell of charred flesh blanketed the courtyard.
Within twenty minutes, every Vordanian soldier was either butchered, burned, or gutted. Over three hundred corpses rotted in the smoldering ruin.
The Iron Howl stood amidst the devastation—laughing, looting, some still painting with blood.
Velka wiped her blades.
A scout approached, breathless. "Commander… news from the east. Raze Vakros… he's dead."
Velka went still. "What?"
"A dagger through the skull. His camp at Blackwood… annihilated. Half his men drained of blood, twisted. The others were… torn apart."
Velka's jaw clenched. Her eyes, behind the mask, burned.
"Raze was our dagger in the dark. He was scouting terrain near Vordros… mapping the capital. His death sets us back."
The lieutenant stepped closer. "What do we do?"
Velka stared at the burning watchtower.
"We gather the other Howl circles. Retreat to the Pale Dens. We wait. We plan. The landscape around Vordros is… treacherous. We must learn its bones before we strike."
Her voice dropped into a whisper.
"Raze was to prepare the groundwork. To bleed their maps. Without him… we proceed slower."
Another Howler asked, "But who killed him?"
"I don't know," Velka said. "But they will pay."
She raised her blade to the sky.
"When we return… Vordros will drown in its own blood."
Midday light glared over the capital, but inside the palace halls, darkness reigned. Cold seeped through every stone. Shadows moved without masters.
Captain Halrix walked beside Councilor Vane, his face pale, armor caked in dried blood.
"You're certain you want to face him?" Vane asked.
"He must hear it from me."
They entered the Emperor's chamber.
It was no throne room. It was a sanctum of torment.
Corpses, half-alive, hung from hooks. Blood leaked into silver gutters. The air stank of rot and screams.
At the far end, on a grand throne forged from pure gold and Nytherium—a rare, radiant metal that shimmered in hues of deep red and violet—sat Aurelian Voss, Emperor of Vordania. The throne pulsed with a subtle glow, its polished surface exuding both power and mystique, as if the metal itself were alive.
He twisted a knife into a prisoner's ribs, smiling like a child with a toy.
"Speak."
Halrix knelt.
"My lord… the Western Watchtower is lost. Burned. Three hundred slaughtered."
Aurelian pulled the knife upward. The prisoner shrieked—and died.
"Explain."
"An elite force. Silent. Brutal. The commander was blinded and nailed to the gate. The dead were used to mock our banner."
Vane added, "Also… Blackwood. Raze Vakros. Dead. His forces annihilated."
Aurelian rose.
The room froze.
Even the corpses stopped twitching.
"Two sites. Two weeks. And you bring me rot and smoke."
He stepped down. Halrix tried to speak—
Aurelian struck. Fist to jaw. Halrix slammed into the stone.
"YOU LET THIS HAPPEN UNDER MY SKY!?"
Vane intervened. "We believe this is a faction—possibly remnants—"
"Remnants don't stack my men like altars!"
The Emperor turned, voice low and cold.
"Triple executions in the lower districts. Heads. Blood. Let the gutters flood."
He turned to his guards.
"Find me their leader. When I learn the name…"
He smiled wide.
"I will carve it into the heart of this city."