Back in Vain City, people learned quickly that asking the wrong question was suicide.
The most intriguing part is their method of travel.....it commands power.
Their method of travel was just as much a message as their numbers.
At the center of the escort rolled a carriage—not just any kind...it's heavy, rune-braced, and built like a mobile fortress. Its panels were lacquered dark enough to swallow light, and the Skull crest was stamped on the door in bone-white metal. The wheels were reinforced and etched with stabilizing glyphs, meant to keep the carriage steady over rough terrain and disturbed ground.
Two rare beasts pulled it: Dreadmark horses, bred to endure dense spiritual pressure without panicking or tearing their bodies apart.
These were not animals you could keep in an ordinary stable. A Dreadmark horse required special feed, constant treatment, and handlers who knew how to work with a creature that could sense cultivation the way wolves sensed fear. Most families never owned one. The few who did.....of course guarded them like treasures.
Ban's pair were called Driftmares—a name used for the breed itself, because of their ability to keep their footing near unstable space.
His two Driftmares, however, were exceptional even among their kind, and their names were spoken with a hint of reverence by those who understood the value of the horses.....if they can still be called that.
Whisper.....the name of the horse on the left.
While Crown ran on the right.
Their hides were dark and sleek, their manes braided tightly, their hooves striking the stone with controlled force. Even the way they breathed was disciplined, as if they had been taught to treat fatigue as disrespect.
The twenty Wyrmscourge experts rode their own mounts—strong horses from the Bloodfang Realm, a tier below Dreadmark steeds, but still costly. Bloodfang mounts were bred for aggression and stamina. They could push through fear, bite when threatened, and keep running long after ordinary horses would stumble.
Expensive horses, yes.
The contrast was deliberate: the carriage showed authority, and the escort showed force.
All of it said the same thing.
The Skull Family has arrived.
When the walls of Dravenloch finally rose ahead, Ban did not slow immediately. He watched the city's outer defenses as a coach would, before a match against a rival club. The gates had been repaired more than once. That much was obvious.....cause fresh wood sat beside older stone, and scorch marks stained the lower sections of the wall where something had burned hot enough to scar it permanently.
Guards stood at the gate, the kinds that had not slept properly in days. Their shoulders were heavy. Their eyes were too alert, like people who expected the sky itself to tear open again at any moment.
When they saw the Skull crest, tension spread through the gatehouse.
One would have expected it to be gratitude...they were here to aid them....but they felt non of these.
Because Dravenloch knew the Skull Family's reputation. And Dravenloch understood that help from a rival was never free.
But the gates opened anyway. The Maverick Clan did not have the luxury of pride.
Ban passed through the entrance and into the city's wounded streets.
Rubble lined the roads in uneven piles. Some buildings had collapsed inward like broken ribs. Others still stood but looked hollowed out, their windows was shattered and their doors twisted off their hinges. The stones underfoot were cracked in jagged patterns, as though the ground had been clenched and then released.
The air held the aftertaste of distortion—a faint pressure behind the eyes.
The wormhole had closed, but its memory remained.
People moved through the streets in a hurried, exhausted pattern. Healers worked in open spaces where the injured had been gathered. While Civilians carried buckets, cloth, splints, and whatever they could salvage.
Ban's escort drew attention immediately.
Some people stared with cautious hope. Others with resentment. A few with fear, because even in disaster, politics did not pause.
The Skull Family's presence meant something. It meant changes would follow.
Ban dismounted smoothly from his carriage, his boots landing on the cracked stone without hesitation. He handed the reins to one of his experts without looking away from the ruined street ahead.
"Spread," he ordered, his voice were calm but sharp enough to cut. "Sweep the outer districts first. Any remaining beasts are to be eliminated. Do not chase too far alone. Pair up if you need to. If you find survivors trapped under rubble, bring them out. If you find corruption, burn it."
The Wyrmscourge experts moved at once. No confusion. No wasted words. They fanned out along the street like trained hunters, their Bloodfang mounts snorting and stepping carefully over debris.
Ban's Hell-forged wardens stayed close behind him, silent as shadows.
Ban took a slow breath and listened—not with his ears alone, but with the sense cultivated warriors developed over years.
The wormhole's scream was gone. The tear in space had sealed. What remained was the city's heartbeat: frightened people, wounded wardens, and the quiet, bitter aftershock of surviving.
He was late.
And everyone knew it.
He did not need to be told.
Still, he expected someone to say it.
He found that someone less than a minute later.
A group of Dravenloch wardens approached from the direction of the inner ring. Their uniforms carried the Maverick crest, but the crest looked dulled by dust and blood.
Several were injured. One had his arm bound tightly, another walked stiffly as if a rib had cracked and set wrong.
At their front walked Mabel Maverick.
Ban's gaze settled on her the way a blade settled into a sheath—smooth, practiced, familiar.
Mabel was not the type of person disaster could make small. Even wounded, she carried herself like she belonged to the city's backbone. Her hair was pulled back tightly. Dust streaked her temple....a thin cut crossed her cheek, shallow but angry red.
One sleeve was torn, and bruising darkened the skin beneath. In one word....she looked haggered.
But still her eyes were the same as always: sharp, storm-colored, and full of controlled fury.
They stopped a few paces apart.
Ban offered a polite incline of his head, the kind given in courts and councils. "Mabel."
She looked him up and down, taking in his calm expression, his pristine posture, his Hell-forged wardens, his expensive mount, and the unmistakable arrogance that came with the Skull name.....she basically observed him completely.
"Ban Skull," she replied.
The words were simple, but the air between them tightened.
They had never been friends. They were born on opposite sides of a long rivalry, and they had both grown up knowing exactly what the other represented. Ban enjoyed that kind of tension. He treated it like a game.
Mabel did not.
Mabel hated losing control of anything—especially her city, and especially her pride.
"You came," she said.
"We did," Ban replied, voice measured.
Mabel's gaze flicked toward the broken street behind him. "Late."
There it was.
Ban did not react. He did not stiffen or become defensive. He simply looked at her with quiet patience, as if she were a child stating an obvious fact.
"We came as soon as we received the message," he said.
Mabel took one step closer, just enough to sharpen the challenge. "As soon as you received it."
The accusation sat laced in her words like poison beneath sweet wine.
You delayed on purpose.
Your father delayed on purpose.
The Skull Family wanted Dravenloch to bleed first.
Ban's expression softened into something that looked like understanding, but was actually control.
"The messenger arrived late," Ban said smoothly. "Not every delay is a scheme, Mabel."
The way he said her name made it worse—too familiar, too calm, too careful. It sounded like he was trying to soothe her, which made her want to strike him.
Mabel's fingers twitched at her side. A few Maverick wardens shifted subtly, their stance tightening.
Ban's Hell-forged wardens did not move at all.
Mabel stared at Ban, clearly unconvinced. But she also knew the shape of politics. She had suspicion, not proof. And in the aftermath of a wormhole attack, she could not afford to start a public dispute with the Skull Family and risk losing the aid they brought.
So she swallowed her anger.
But her voice turned colder. "Fine. If you are here, then help."
Ban's mouth curved in a thin smile. "I already am."
He turned slightly and gestured toward the city.
"I have sent my experts to clear the remaining beasts," he said. "The wormhole is closed, yes, but the creatures it left behind do not simply vanish. They hide....they wait for exhausted people to stop watching."
Mabel's eyes narrowed. "And that is why you brought Wyrmscourge experts with you.....twenty of them."
"It is," Ban agreed.
Then he added, almost casually, "I will assign five to remain with your wardens. They will assess structural damage, help secure survivors, and make certain any corruption is handled before it spreads."
He signaled with two fingers.
Five Wyrmscourge experts immediately returned from the edge of the street, as if they had been waiting for the call. Their discipline was obvious.
Their eyes moved constantly, scanning rooftops and alleys.
Ban spoke to them crisply. "You five. Support Lady Mabel's operations. Prioritize survivors and containment. Report anything unusual directly to me."