Three days east of the ruined vault, the wind carried the scent of ash and something older—like iron steeped in memory. The Dawnbound rode through desolate ridgelines, the sky above them thick with clouds that never wept, only churned in silent unrest. Snow no longer fell. The weather had stilled, and the world beneath their boots felt wrong—off-kilter, as though some ancient rhythm had been broken.
They were headed toward coordinates uncovered in the Precursor charts Selia had managed to recover before the vault collapsed. Another site. Another gate.
But this one wasn't sealed.
This one, if the charts were to be believed, had never closed.
Lucian led them without rest, urgency painted in every motion. He'd spoken little since the Maker's disappearance—his silence no longer the cold reserve of a soldier, but the internal focus of a man standing on the edge of a precipice and knowing he had no choice but to leap.
The others followed him because they believed in him.
Or because they had nothing left to lose.
At the dawn of the fourth day, they arrived.
The gate lay nestled in the heart of a rift canyon—the scars of a cataclysm that had carved the land open like flesh torn by claws. It wasn't marked by spires or monuments, but by a single structure: a circle of black standing stones, each humming with a resonance that made the stomach twist.
In the center stood the gate itself.
It shimmered faintly, as though the fabric of the world had thinned there—light rippling like water disturbed by unseen hands. An aperture into nothing. But the air smelled of blood and salt and stars.
They dismounted and approached on foot.
"Selia," Lucian said, low and wary. "Read it."
The scholar knelt beside one of the stones. Ancient sigils pulsed weakly along its face. She traced them, eyes narrowing.
"It's a threshold. A true gate. Not like the obelisks. This was built to be crossed, not to contain. But there's more... It's tethered."
"Tethered to what?" asked Laila, her hand resting on the fletching of an arrow.
"To something on the other side. A fixed point. That's why it's still open." She looked up at Lucian. "This is a doorway. Not a trap."
Tista gave a low grunt. "And what happens if the thing tethered to it comes through?"
"It hasn't in thousands of years," Selia replied. "But the Maker… he knew about this. He built the Harbinger to light beacons. If this is one of them…"
Lucian stepped into the edge of the circle. Immediately, a low hum crawled through his bones. His breath steamed in the still air. Visions stirred at the edge of his thoughts—warped, fleeting glimpses of shattered continents and floating monoliths burning under crimson skies.
"They're preparing something," he said. "Not just an invasion. A return."
Behind them, the wind began to rise.
Then it came—low and deep—the sound of a horn.
Not made by men.
Not natural.
The Dawnbound turned as one, weapons ready.
From the ridges above, figures emerged—tall, clad in layered bone-mail, their faces hidden behind veils of ash and gold. Their weapons were not of steel, but channeled light, solidified into cruel crescents and spears that shimmered with foreign fire.
One stepped forward, taller than the rest. His voice was hollow, as though spoken through a thousand mouths.
You stand at the threshold. This gate is not yours.
Lucian took a step forward, unfazed. "Then whose is it?"
The gate belongs to those who made the stars scream. To the Pale Lords. To the Sovereign of Unbirth.
Selia whispered, "Gods help us…"
But the warrior raised a hand. We are the Oathborne. Wardens of the Bound Flame. You trespass.
Lucian raised his sword. "Then speak before you strike. Who is the Maker? Why is he opening the gates now?"
The Oathborne tilted his head. Because the seal was never meant to last. You were never meant to inherit this world. It was stolen. You are but weeds in divine soil.
Tista stepped forward. "We've bled for this soil. It's ours now."
The Oathborne made no motion. But the veiled warriors moved as one.
Battle erupted.
The clash was unlike any they had faced.
The Oathborne did not bleed when struck. Their bodies unraveled into motes of golden dust and reformed behind the Dawnbound. They moved without hesitation or fury—only certainty. As if they fought not to win, but to maintain some ancient balance.
Selia drew deep from the vault-sigil bound to her forearm, unleashing a torrent of shattering force that drove three of the figures into the canyon wall. Laila's arrows, infused with starlight, pierced one through the eye-veil, and it crumpled.
Tista waded into them like a tempest, her warhammer singing with arcane momentum. Each blow cratered the stone beneath their feet. And still, more came.
Lucian dueled the tall one—the leader. Their blades clashed, again and again, until sparks lit the air.
"You think us blind to what's coming?" Lucian spat. "We know what your Maker is trying to awaken. And we will stop it."
The Oathborne's face remained blank, impassive.
You cannot stop a tide by killing the wind. The gates will open. The fire will rise.
Lucian roared, blade igniting, and struck the killing blow. The Oathborne crumpled—not into blood or dust—but into silence.
The rest faded.
Gone.
The canyon fell still once more.
The gate remained.
Selia crouched beside where the Oathborne had fallen. Nothing remained but a single glyph, burned into the stone.
"A location," she said, breathless. "Another gate. But not here."
Lucian looked at her.
"Where?"
She swallowed.
"Not on this world."
A silence fell over the Dawnbound as the implications sank in.
Lucian turned to the others.
"We cross."
Tista blinked. "Into… another world?"
Lucian nodded. "If the Maker is moving through the gates, if the Harbinger is setting the path—then we have to go where they've already gone."
Selia closed her eyes. "We may not come back."
Laila adjusted her grip on her bow. "We were never meant to survive this. Just to stop what comes next."
Lucian stepped into the circle. The gate flared.
The others joined him.
One by one, they vanished.
The circle pulsed once.
Then silence.
The canyon watched.
And the stars turned.