By midmorning, the Wastes shimmered like liquid glass.

  Fort Magnus crouched on the horizon, a black fortress of iron, its battlements glinting in the heat haze. To the untrained eye, it looked deserted, but from the ramparts, watchful eyes tracked every shift of the dunes.

  Drakath stood at the upper parapet, spyglass raised against the glare. Heat rippled around him, curling the air. Below, soldiers moved in practiced rhythm, mending barricades, sharpening weapons, hauling water from the inner cistern. Even with the recent quiet, the fort had learned to live on edge.

  Krell climbed the stone steps to join him, sweat running through the dust on his neck. "The cannibals and demons have gone quiet. It's unnerving."

  Drakath adjusted the glass, eyes narrowing as he spotted a caravan in the distance.

  Krell followed his gaze. At first, there was only haze, then a faint glimmer, a ripple of steel beneath the sun. Soon, the glint resolved, revealing a friendly sight: banners, armored riders, and wagons etched in the crimson and black of Cindercrest.

  "Capital colors," Krell whispered with intrigue.

  Drakath lowered the glass. "They made good time."

  He handed the spyglass off, expression unreadable. "Signal the gate crew. Have the yard cleared. We'll meet them properly."

  Krell saluted and moved at once, shouting orders down the stairwell.

  Drakath lingered a moment longer, eyes on the approaching dust trail. The caravan looked small against the Wastes, a fragile thread of life winding through an ocean of ruin. He'd seen enough campaigns to know that any march through this land came at a cost.

  - - -

  Rodric shaded his eyes as the wind picked up, grit stinging his face. The walls of Fort Magnus had begun to take shape ahead, vast and dark, a wound against the horizon.

  Marcellus rode beside him, helm off, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His face was streaked with dust and sweat, but his eyes were sharp as ever. "Still stands," he said. "I'll admit, I wasn't sure it would."

  Rodric gave a faint smile. "Drakath's too stubborn to lose, even to the Wastes. We've been stuck in this hell for far too long. It's time we made contact with the rest of the Underworld."

  Ignivar rode ahead. The Archmagister's cloak fluttered behind him like a tongue of flame. Two mages followed, both clad in scorched bronze robes, their pauldrons engraved with molten sigils. Pyroclastic mages of the Obsidian Spire, field sorcerers trained to wield volcanic fire as easily as breath.

  Rodric glanced at them. "They've been quiet since we left the city."

  Ignivar's tone was mild, almost amused. "They're conserving strength. This is the first time they've left Cindercrest."

  Marcellus leaned forward in his saddle, squinting toward Fort Magnus. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips.

  "Full colors on the ramparts," Marcellus noted, spotting the crimson flags snapping against the grey sky. "And the gate guard is in ceremonial plate, not their usual dust-leathers. Looks like Drakath is pulling out all the stops for you, High Chancellor."

  "He's thorough," Rodric replied.

  "He's nervous," Marcellus corrected. "It's been three years since you visited the frontier. He wants to make sure you see the shine before you see the rust."

  Beyond the gates, the evidence of Drakath's anxiety was visible. Soldiers were assembling in the yard, ranks neat and disciplined, armor polished to a mirror sheen that stood in stark contrast to the grime of the Wastes. Even at this distance, Rodric could sense the rigid order in their movements, Drakath's mark, no doubt.

  The caravan slowed as they drew near. The black walls loomed higher, veined with faint lines where leyline energy bled through the stone. Every few moments, the hum of the anchor far below them carried on the wind, a low, resonant vibration that trembled through the earth.

  Rodric's eyes followed the faint glow along the walls. "Cindercrest's pride," he said.

  Ignivar's gaze lingered on the structure. "So, Rodric, this is what you've been working on. Impressive."

  The portcullis creaked upward while the heavy stone gates split open behind, spilling sunlight across the inner yard of Fort Magnus. The smell of oil, hot stone, and smelted iron rolled out with the heat.

  Drakath stood at the gate with his officers behind him, posture straight, expression composed, the picture of a dutiful commander. His armor was polished to a mirrored sheen, his cloak brushed free of even a speck of ash.

  Rodric was the first to dismount, dust trailing from his own travel-stained cloak. He handed his reins to an attendant without looking away from the captain.

  "Captain Drakath," Rodric greeted, his voice smooth and unreadable.

  Drakath bowed his head, a sharp, military incline. "High Chancellor. Fort Magnus stands ready."

  Rodric didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, moving into Drakath's personal space. He began to circle the captain slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.

  The yard fell deathly silent.

  Rodric's eyes never ceased their movement. He scanned the soldiers' alignment, noting the perfect spacing of the ranks. He looked at the supply crates stacked with geometrical precision near the armory and inspected the flagstones of the courtyard, which looked as though they had been scrubbed raw just hours before.

  The masonry on the new watchtowers wasn't the hasty patch job of a frontier camp; it was reinforced, dark stone, seamless and permanent. Drakath had done his best to tame the frontier. There wasn't a tool out of place. There wasn't a soldier slouching. The fort was immaculate.

  Drakath stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on the middle distance, enduring the scrutiny with practiced discipline.

  Rodric completed his circle, coming back to stand directly in front of the captain. He took in the towering walls, now nearly complete, seeing the realization of his decade-long ambition.

  A genuine smile touched the High Chancellor's lips, rare and sharp.

  "Impeccable," Rodric said softly. "I see the reports were modest. You have turned a construction site into a stronghold, Captain."

  He placed a hand on Drakath's pauldron, a gesture of high favor.

  "I knew placing this command in your hands was the correct decision. You have done Cindercrest proud."

  Drakath let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you, Chan-"

  "Oh, drop the act, Rodric!"

  A sharp laugh shattered the formal air. Marcellus swung down from his saddle, tossing his helm to a startled soldier. He strode up, boots heavy on the stone, and pulled Drakath into a one-armed embrace that sounded more like an armored collision.

  "You think I rode almost two days through hellfire just to watch you inspect dust?"

  Drakath chuckled despite himself, the tension breaking instantly as he returned the gesture with a solid clap on the back. "Someone has to keep you from embarrassing the capital, General."

  Rodric arched an eyebrow, lips curving faintly. "Some of us still find value in maintaining appearances, General."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "That's all they are, Rodric, appearances." Marcellus shot back, grinning. "Ignatius isn't here looking over our shoulder. We're stuck in this together, suffering all the same."

  Rodric exhaled through a smile, brushing dust from his sleeve. "I suppose you're correct. Here we all stand, in the furnace of oblivion."

  The tension cracked, laughter rippling briefly among the gathered soldiers. The formality eased, and the reunion felt more like a homecoming than a military briefing.

  Drakath eyed the assembled riders beyond the gate, a column of Cinderblades gleaming in the sun, flanked by two robed Pyroclastic mages. His grin turned sharp.

  "Quite the entourage for an inspection," he said. "And to think, all this iron and fire just to put down a camp of half-starved cannibals and some demons."

  Rodric gave a knowing look. "Appearances, Captain. Best to look like we came for war even if we claim peace."

  Marcellus barked a laugh. "You'd prefer I show up alone?"

  "I'd have settled for half this lot," Drakath said, feigning exasperation. "At this rate, the enemy might surrender before we march on them."

  "Then the mission will be an overwhelming success," Rodric said smoothly, hiding a smirk.

  Ignivar, who had dismounted silently, let the moment run its course before speaking. "Touching," he said dryly. "If you two are done thumping each other like iron on an anvil, perhaps we might discuss why the Empire's finest have chosen to assemble on the frontier."

  Drakath smirked. "Because no one else would dare."

  Ignivar let out a short, dry laugh, a sound like charcoal snapping in a fire.

  It was so uncharacteristic that the conversation halted instantly. Rodric, Marcellus, and Drakath turned to stare at the archmagister, who offered a rare, thin smile.

  "A fair point," Ignivar admitted, his eyes reflecting the harsh glare of the sun. "The libraries of the Spire have grown dull, and the politics of the capital are suffocating. But out here..." He took a deep breath of the scorching air, looking at the desolate horizon with something akin to affection. "The air tastes like ash and potential. It is good to stand in a true kiln again."

  Rodric gestured toward the inner keep, shaking his head slightly at the mage's grim enthusiasm. "Come. We'll continue this inside. I suspect the sun is already planning to kill us all before supper."

  Drakath nodded, motioning toward the courtyard. "You'll find little comfort in the shade. We aren't lucky enough to have cooling towers yet. I think it's high time you pull some of those High Chancellor strings, Rodric."

  "Once you devise a way to transport the materials to Fort Magnus without them melting, I'll put the order in."

  Drakath turned to his men. "See the riders quartered and the mounts watered. The rest of you, grab some food and drink."

  - - -

  The war room of Fort Magnus was built for function, not comfort. Maps and charred banners hung between black-iron sconces, their light wavering against the basalt walls. The faint hum of the leyline anchor thrummed underfoot, steady as a second heartbeat.

  A simple meal lay across the table, coarse bread, smoked meat, and mugs of watered wine. The smell of stew drifted in from the adjoining hearth, thick enough to disguise the stench of oil and sweat that clung to the fort.

  Rodric sat at the head of the table, posture immaculate despite the travel dust. Marcellus occupied the opposite end, leaning back in his chair with a soldier's ease, gauntlets off, a plate already half-cleared. Ignivar sat between them, his cloak draped like a living shadow. The two younger mages stood behind his seat: a woman with white-blond hair drawn into a braid and a quiet intensity in her eyes, and a dark-haired man whose fingers twitched behind his back, lighting and extinguishing a small flame.

  Drakath stood near the window, arms crossed, while Krell lingered beside the wall, sharpening a dagger with slow, even strokes. He looked like he hadn't slept properly in a week.

  Ignivar gestured lazily behind him. "My pupils. Thesira and Kaelen. Pyroclastic specialists. They've never left the Spire until now. The Wastes are less forgiving to those who still trust in shade."

  Rodric inclined his head politely. "Welcome to the frontier. You'll find the air here has little patience for the soft."

  Neither mage replied, though Thesira gave the faintest nod. Kaelen only smiled thinly.

  Marcellus tore another piece of bread, glancing around the table. "So. We're all here, drinking Cindercrest's finest mead, eating Magnus's dust-soaked meat… Someone tell me it wasn't just to play exterminator for a pack of cannibals."

  Rodric dabbed his mouth with a cloth, measured as always. "Officially, that is the purpose, a simple purge."

  "There is nothing 'simple' about this," Ignivar interrupted, his voice smooth and carrying a weight that silenced the room.

  The archmagister stood, walking over to the large map on the wall. He traced a finger over the area Drakath had marked for their raid.

  "Consider the ecology of this hell," Ignivar mused, sounding less like a soldier and more like a professor lecturing a class. "The heat alone kills the weak. The scarcity of water kills the foolish. These cannibals... they are brutish, yes. Dull-witted, perhaps. But they have survived here for centuries. That requires a primal, violent instinct for self-preservation."

  He turned back to the table, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

  "And yet, Drakath's reports suggest they are fighting alongside demons. Creatures that, by nature, should view the cannibals as food, not allies."

  Marcellus frowned. "Maybe they struck a deal."

  "Chaos does not strike deals, General," Ignivar countered. "Chaos consumes. For two predators of the Wastes to put aside their hunger and work together is unnatural. Chaos does not organize itself unless it is herded."

  The room went quiet. Rodric leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "You suspect a unifying force."

  "I suspect," Ignivar said, turning his gaze toward Drakath, "that we are looking at symptoms, not the disease."

  The archmagister gestured to the captain.

  "Drakath, recount the scouting report. Tell us exactly what you saw in that basin."

  Drakath's eyes drifted toward the map. "We trailed a column of them for an hour. A dozen cannibals moving with a group of demons. No aggression. No fear. The demons walked with a strange, stiff gait... heads lolling slightly. And the cannibals darted around their legs like hunting dogs."

  "And the camp?" Ignivar pressed.

  "A staging ground," Drakath confirmed. "We saw cannibals hauling scrap and boxes with ant-like efficiency. The demons stood around watching them, motionless."

  Ignivar looked at Rodric, a silent communication passing between the two high-ranking officials.

  "Subservient," Ignivar stated. "It sounds less like an alliance."

  He looked back at the group. "If there is a new power in the Wastes forcing these factions together, stripping them of their natural aggression, we will not learn of it by staring at parchment."

  Ignivar paused. He walked around the room, hands clasped behind his back, and closed his eyes.

  "There is one other possibility," the Archmagister whispered.

  He took a slow, deep breath.

  As he inhaled, the air in the room warped. The flames in the black-iron sconces were pulled toward him, stretching horizontally like banners caught in a gale. The light in the room dimmed as the fire bowed in submission to his presence, casting long, unnatural shadows against the basalt walls.

  When Ignivar opened his eyes, the whites were gone. They were twin pits of molten gold, glowing with the intensity of a blast furnace.

  The room went deathly still. Even Marcellus, who feared nothing that bled, shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "Dreadfire," Ignivar said, his voice resonating with the heat of the stolen fire.

  The name sucked the remaining air out of the room. Drakath, who had lived in the shadow of the ruins his whole career, stiffened.

  "That was over a century ago," Marcellus scoffed. "How does that war bear any resemblance today?"

  "You remember the victory, General, but you forget," Ignivar corrected, the glow in his eyes pulsing. "A pair of liches came to these Infernal Wastes to raise a horde. They were sweeping the land, consuming everything."

  Ignivar returned to the front of the room, all eyes resting on him.

  "Emperor Kaedor, may his name rest in the eternal flame, realized a terrifying truth. If Cindercrest fought demons and hordes of the undead simultaneously, a three-way war, we wouldn't be standing here today."

  He looked from face to face, ensuring the weight of history landed.

  "So they chose the unthinkable. The Iron Legion and the demon tribes called a truce. They realized that to save the Wastes, it had to be two against one. Mortal enemies stood shoulder to shoulder at the Burning Steps because they knew that if the liches won, there would be no meat left for the demons and no land left for the humans."

  The flames in the sconces snapped back to their original positions as Ignivar exhaled, but the heat remained.

  "The seals placed upon their tombs were woven by the finest mages of Cindercrest at that time. But firecraft wanes. Stone crumbles. And if the Dreadfire Lords have returned..."

  He looked at the map, tracing the distance between Fort Magnus and the ruined city of Nethervale.

  "Then we are not facing a simple uprising. We are facing an enemy that forced even the most dangerous creatures of the Wastes to accept aid."

  Rodric's face had gone pale in the dim light. "You think the liches have returned? After a century of silence?"

  "I think," Ignivar said, the molten gold in his eyes fading back to human white, "that we are seeing the symptoms. Thrall-hood. Coordination. Demons and cannibals working together? If the demons are unified with the liches, we are in grave danger, all of us. The walls of Cindercrest will crumble under such a host."

  He let the sentence hang in the air, heavy with threat.

  "We need to secure that camp," Ignivar finished. "Whatever is controlling them, I want it found. We must move with haste."

  Rodric stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stone. "We do not deal in ghost stories, Archmagister. We deal in intelligence."

  "Intelligence requires evidence," Ignivar countered smoothly. He turned his gaze to the captain. "Drakath, the encampment your men spotted, how far is it?"

  "North-east basin," Drakath answered immediately. "Close. With a mounted unit, we can strike, clear the area, and return to the fort within half a day."

  "Then we move," Ignivar decided, looking back at Rodric. "If there is a puppet master pulling strings out there, we will find the threads at that camp. We go there, we put down whatever is waiting, and we look for answers."

  Rodric adjusted his cuffs, his expression hardening. "Agreed. But we do not march blindly, and we do not march exhausted. The caravan is spent."

  He looked at the captain.

  "Drakath, bring me a list of every patrol and every corporal under your command. I want them reorganized immediately. We secure the perimeter tonight."

  Drakath's jaw set. "As you order."

  "We hold Fort Magnus tonight. Let the men eat and rest. But at first light tomorrow, the Ember Vanguard and the Cinderblades will launch a coordinated assault on the cannibal encampment. Precise, overwhelming, surgical."

  Marcellus thumped a gauntleted hand on the table. "Finally, some damn action!"

  Rodric turned to the map. "Drakath, you'll lead the Vanguard component. Marcellus, you take the Cinderblade detachment. Ignivar, I'll leave the fire support to your discretion, but I want your mages ready to burn whatever we find."