Thirty-six hours before the telegram reached Doras Dagda, Edinburgh, Scotland, pulsed with life, unaware of the horror about to descend. The city's heart beat strong, but a shadow loomed, ready to tear it apart.
Lord Provost Malcolm Dunbar stood at the window of his office, high above Edinburgh, his hands clasped tight behind his back. The Scott Monument loomed below, its Gothic spire a jagged silhouette against the green sprawl of Princes Street Gardens. The city buzzed with life, but the air felt heavy, pressing against the glass with an unseen weight. Malcolm's jaw clenched as he watched, his gray eyes tracing the streets where a parade marched in wasteful celebration.
The parade's bright banners and blaring horns grated on him, a hollow display of pageantry. He could almost hear the coins clinking, money that could have paid medical bills, raised teachers' salaries, or housed the homeless. Instead, it funded this spectacle, approved by Councillor Isobel Strathmore despite her months of blocking aid for Edinburgh's struggling citizens. Malcolm's fingers tightened, his frustration a cold knot in his chest. What was she thinking?
He turned from the window, disgust sour in his throat, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. A dark cloud gathered over the Scott Monument, its edges crackling with jagged red sparks. The cloud thickened, swirling like oil in water, heavy with menace. Malcolm froze, his breath catching as a bolt of red lightning ripped through the sky.
The lightning struck the monument with a sound like the earth splitting open, a deafening crack that shook the office windows. Stone exploded outward, shards flying like shrapnel, and a shockwave rolled through the gardens, uprooting trees and scattering debris. Malcolm stumbled back, his hands slamming against the desk as the monument's remains collapsed into a crater, its edges charred black, smoke rising in thick, choking plumes.
"Dear God," he whispered, his voice breaking. His daughter, Elspeth, was at the parade, her bright laugh echoing in his mind. A prayer slipped from his lips, instinctive, desperate, and to a God he hadn't honored in many years. His words felt hollow and unheard, against the horrors unfolding below. Screams erupted, sharp and raw, cutting through the city's hum. The parade had been there, with hundreds of people laughing and celebrating. Now it was reduced to chaos.
From his vantage point, Malcolm saw survivors crawling from the blast zone, clothes shredded, faces smeared with blood and ash. A woman clutched a severed hand, her screams raw, while a man's legs ended in jagged stumps, blood pooling beneath him. The ground was slick with gore, littered with shattered bones and torn flesh. Others ran toward the crater, shouting for loved ones, while air raid sirens wailed, their discordant howl vibrating through the office walls. The city trembled, a low groan rumbling from the earth, as if the ground itself recoiled from the destruction.
A new sound pierced the chaos, a sharp crack like ropes snapping under strain. It grew louder, a relentless chorus of breaking, splintering, until it became a deafening roar of shattered chains. Malcolm pressed a hand to the glass, his mouth open, his mind racing to comprehend.
Then the air tore open.
A glowing portal ripped into existence at the crater's center, its edges burning with reddish-orange light, flames writhing like living tendrils. Through the fiery rift, Malcolm glimpsed a molten hellscape, a seething expanse of lava and ash, the air shimmering with unbearable heat. The portal's aura pressed outward, heavy and oppressive, filling the city with a sense of dread that clawed at the mind.
Nothing emerged, not yet, but the ground beneath the portal quaked, cracks spidering outward like black veins, the earth groaning in protest. Malcolm's fingers dug into the window frame, his breath shallow. He had no words, only fear, as Edinburgh shuddered under the weight of something ancient and incomprehensible.
His phone rang, the desk lines lighting up in a frantic chorus. Malcolm grabbed the ACH receiver, slamming the first button. "Dunbar here," he barked, forcing his voice steady.
"Malcolm, thank heavens you're alive," came Councillor Fiona Kerr's sharp voice, cutting through the noise. She was a rare ally, her no-nonsense tone a lifeline in the chaos.
"I'm fine," Malcolm said, glancing at the destruction outside. "I saw it happen. Fiona, what the hell is going on?"
"I don't know," she admitted, her words clipped, urgent. "But people need help. Injuries are piling up, and we don't know if that blast is the end of it."
Malcolm didn't hesitate. "I'll issue orders. Get every police and military unit to secure the area. Barricades around that crater, now. Keep people away from that thing."
"Agreed," Fiona said. "I'll handle emergency services. You manage the broader response."
Malcolm hung up, fielding the flood of calls with grim focus. Fires were breaking out from stray embers, buildings near the blast had collapsed, and evacuation routes were clogged with panicked citizens. He issued commands with precision, his mind a storm of calculations. "Divert fire crews to the east side, that's where the blaze is worst," he said into one call. "First aid stations at St. Andrew Square and Waverley Bridge," he told another. "No, we don't know what caused it, keep people calm," he snapped into a third.
The final call came from a military base. "This is General McAllister," a gruff voice said. "Lord Provost, Kerr briefed us. What do you need?"
Malcolm took a breath, steadying himself. "Secure that crater. Turn people away, no one in or out. And, General, keep anything else from getting into our city."
A pause. "What do you mean by 'anything else,' Provost?"
Malcolm didn't answer. He hung up, grabbed his coat, and moved toward the door, his steps quick, determined. A deep, guttural roar stopped him cold, echoing from the blast site with a force that rattled the windows. He turned back slowly, his knees buckling as he saw it, a monstrous creature, wreathed in flames, stepping from the portal. Its massive form crashed onto the cracked earth, the ground shaking with each step. "That's not possible," Malcolm whispered, his voice breaking. "That's not possible!"
Elsewhere, General McAllister's command post buzzed with frantic energy, officers and aides moving like a swarm. The phone barely hit the cradle before he barked, "Get me aerial surveillance on that blast site! I want visuals now!"
"Yes, sir!" came the replies, voices overlapping as staff scrambled. The thrum of rotor blades filled the air, helicopters lifting off toward the glowing crater. In the background, medics prepped kits, their hands steady despite the tension, ready to aid the injured.
McAllister stood at the center, his broad frame a pillar of control, issuing orders with a voice like gravel. "Every unit on standby! Comms up with local police and emergency services! I need a status on civilian casualties!"
A junior officer approached, tablet in hand, his face pale. "Sir, first footage from the portal."
McAllister snatched the tablet, his jaw tightening as he watched. One screen showed the portal, a pulsating orb of molten light, its surface roiling like a miniature sun, flames licking at its edges. Another replayed the Scott Monument's destruction, red lightning striking in a relentless loop, stone shattering into dust. The room fell silent, the surreal imagery sinking in, a cold weight settling over the officers.
McAllister broke the quiet, his voice low, furious. "Anyone have any feckin' idea what in the blazes that is?"
No one answered, the silence heavy, until a soldier at the live feed spoke up, his voice tight. "Sir!"
All eyes turned to the screen. Something moved in the portal's fiery chaos, a creature, monstrous, its body dripping with flames, arcs of raw magic crackling across its form. Massive claws gripped the portal's edges as it dragged itself forward, glowing eyes scanning the crater with predatory intent, the air around it shimmering with heat.
McAllister's voice thundered, shaking the room. "Get those men over there now! Notify everyone!" Officers scrambled, relaying orders, as McAllister stared at the screen, his fists clenched. Whatever this was, it was beyond anything he'd ever faced, a nightmare stepping into reality.
Deep beneath Edinburgh, in a fortified bunker, Councillor Isobel Strathmore reclined in a sleek chair, the hum of Enclave tech casting cold blue light across her pale skin. Her sharp eyes, a piercing gray, locked onto a screen showing the Scott Monument seconds before the strike. She had known this was coming. Planned it. And now, safe in her bunker, she watched the chaos unfold with glee.
The red lightning struck, and the monument exploded into jagged fragments, a thousand pieces raining down like shattered bones. Isobel clapped her hands, a shrill squeal escaping her lips, her fair face alight with childlike joy. Director Elias's funding had made her parade ritual possible, a bloody offering to win the Warlock's favor, every death a gift to her merciless god. She leaned back, hands pressed to her chest, laughter bubbling up as the feed replayed the destruction, over and over.
"Beautiful," she murmured, her lips curling into a wicked grin, her voice a soft hiss. "Absolutely beautiful."
She brushed her fingers over the controls, replaying the footage, her eyes glinting with unholy delight. The thought of the dead, the injured, their blood soaking the streets, only fueled her exhilaration. All those lives and all that blood were a sacrifice for the Warlock. It was a surge of power to fuel his return. She could almost feel it, the raw energy coursing through the city, feeding the portal's creation.
Isobel's past with the Enclave was a shadow, even to those who signed her paychecks as an "Operations Consultant." Only one council member had approved her, and now that confidence paid off.
The parade had been her idea, a spectacle to pack the streets with hundreds, bands marching, dancers twirling, all of them unwitting pawns in her ritual. Their lives were the kindling, their deaths the spark, and the portal the flame.
Helicopters and drones swarmed the site on her screens, and she laughed again, a high, grating sound that echoed off the sterile walls. "Oh, you fools," she giggled, her voice rising with excitement. "Your mechanical toys, your little gadgets, they're nothing. You can't stop this. You can't stop him." Her laughter grew manic, her hands trembling with anticipation. "Just wait! Just wait!"
The portal shimmered on the screen, and something began to emerge. Her laughter died, her eyes widening in awe and fear. A creature, born of nightmare, pulled itself from the fiery rift, flames dripping from its body, arcs of magic dancing across its form. For the first time in millennia, something ancient and terrible had returned, a being tied to the Warlock, a herald of the destruction to come.
Isobel sank back, her hands clasped tight, a grin stretching across her face, tinged with reverence. "He's here," she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling with dark joy. "He's really here."