When Atlas woke, the first thing he noticed was the silence.
No wind, no wings, no distant explosions or screaming demons, just quiet, steady, and clean. The second thing he noticed was the pain, dull and deep now, radiating from his side but no longer sharp enough to steal his breath.
The room he was in smelled faintly of herbs and clean linen, too calm for the chaos still ringing in Atlas's skull. White marble walls caught the sunlight and reflected it softly, almost mockingly. When he shifted, pain flared along his side, sharp enough to drag a breath from his chest.
"You're awake!" The voice came fast, relieved, almost panicked. "Oh, thank the gods."
Atlas turned his head slowly. Lady Vorenna stood at his bedside, hands clasped tight in front of her green and blue dress as if she'd been holding herself together by sheer will alone.
He blinked, his vision swimming before settling. "Ah…"
His hand instinctively went to his side, fingers brushing thick bandages beneath bare skin.
"Slow," Vorenna said quickly, stepping closer. "Slow. Please. You've been unconscious for days."
"Days," Atlas echoed hoarsely. "Where am I?"
"Back in the capital," she said. "A healer tended to you the moment you arrived. You're lucky that gash missed anything vital."
Atlas huffed weakly. "Yeah, what's new?"
Her gaze lingered on him longer than he liked, tracing the scars that crossed his torso, old burns and blade marks layered over one another like a map of poor decisions and a life of pain. Something unreadable flickered behind her eyes.
"You'll be able to remove the bandages tomorrow," she said softly. "If you don't do anything stupid before then."
Atlas pushed himself upright anyway, ignoring her sharp inhale of protest. "Where are the others?"
"At an inn," she replied. "Resting. Recovering. They won't tell me what happened." Her voice hardened just slightly. "You will."
He stood, swaying, and reached for his clothes. "Ask the hybrid."
Vorenna frowned. "Lorian? He went missing shortly after you returned. But the contract remains intact. None of you have been punished, so I doubt he ran away. But, whatever happened—"
"We failed," Atlas said.
The words landed heavier than he expected.
She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "You're joking. I spoke to Chieftain Fael myself. He accepted our terms."
Atlas pulled on his tunic, turning his back to her. "Doesn't matter. The demons are joining Drakos."
Silence swallowed the room.
"That's… that's not possible," Vorenna whispered. "You're mistaken."
"I'm not." Atlas fastened his cloak slowly, each movement deliberate. "The world's not fair, Vorenna. I accepted that a long time ago, now you should too."
Shock drained the color from her face as the implications settled in. "Then this contract… this choice…"
Atlas opened the door. "Was a mistake. I told you I wasn't fit to be a leader."
He stepped out, leaving Vorenna seated in the sterile quiet, the weight of her own decisions pressing down hard.
"Shit," she breathed.
For the first time since the Deathforged were signed into service, doubt crept into Vorenna's mind—and it was far too late to undo anything now.
---
Calik flew low through the Foglands, his wings cutting through the heavy air in uneven strokes that sent sharp pain up his spine and into his shoulder with every beat, though he refused to slow or show it, even as his vision blurred and the scarred flesh around his left eye throbbed uselessly beneath the sealed lid.
The forest below stretched endlessly in every direction, a dead and hollow place where skeletal trees clawed at the fog-choked sky, their branches stripped bare and twisted into unnatural shapes, bark split and blackened as if burned long ago and never allowed to heal. Thick fog pooled between the trunks in slow-moving waves, swallowing sound and distance alike, turning the land into something oppressive and disorienting, as though the Foglands existed not to be crossed, but to erase those foolish enough to enter.
Forty demon soldiers followed behind him in a staggered formation, their wings beating with disciplined precision despite the tension that hung between them, each of them silent, each of them aware that even demons did not belong here. The Foglands did not fear strength, and they did not respect lineage, and Calik could feel the land pressing in on them the deeper they went, like a predator waiting patiently for a mistake.
His right hand clenched instinctively, the missing fingers sending phantom pain up his arm as another cold gust tore through his cloak, while the clipped edge of his ear burned sharply against the freezing air. One wing stuttered mid-beat, forcing him to correct his flight with a sharp exhale that he swallowed immediately.
This was the cost.
The image of Falco flashed unbidden through his mind, the boy's wide eyes and trembling stance burned into Calik's memory just before the world had shattered around him, the sound of that punch still echoing in his bones, the sheer impossibility of the force that had torn through him without warning or hesitation.
Calik's jaw tightened.
He did not look back.
The fog thinned as the terrain dipped, revealing a wide valley below, and Calik slowed just enough to take in the sight that greeted them. A dark lake stretched across the center of the basin, its surface unnaturally still, broken only by pale shapes floating across it in grotesque silence.
Elven bodies.
Sunborn Empire soldiers lay scattered along the shore and drifting in the shallows, their white and gold armor crushed, split, or torn clean apart, banners half-submerged beneath mud and ash, limbs tangled together as if the land itself had claimed them. Some had frozen mid-motion, faces locked in terror, hands still reaching for weapons that had failed them.
Calik felt no sympathy, but something colder settled in his chest.
So this was the Foglands campaign.
So this was the truth behind the returning wounded.
They flew on in silence as the valley disappeared behind them and the fog thickened once more, until at last the mountain emerged like a looming shadow carved from the sky itself. Mount Solomon rose impossibly tall, its jagged slopes coated in snow and ice that glimmered faintly through the haze, its peak swallowed by storm clouds that churned endlessly above.
The mountain looked wrong.
Not merely tall or imposing, but deliberate, as though it had been shaped with intent. Massive caverns gaped along its face, reinforced with metal and rune-etched supports, faint lights flickering from within like watchful eyes. Black banners trimmed in deep crimson hung from cliffside anchors and cavern mouths alike, each bearing the sigil of the Inquisitors of Godfall.
A vertical blade splitting a hollow circle clean in two. Beneath it, three narrow marks etched beneath the ring. Judgment. Inevitability. Sacrifice.
Calik felt the air grow heavier with every beat of his wings as they approached.
Figures emerged from the fog near the outer caverns, Inquisitor scouts perched along the stone like carrion birds, cloaked and masked, weapons resting casually in their hands. One of them raised a hand, and Calik slowed, landing heavily on the stone as pain lanced through his leg.
A tall, thin figure stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his presence immediately commanding attention. He wore a black cloak over a red tunic, and his face was hidden behind a birchwood mask carved into the likeness of a snarling beast, pale elven ears jutting out from beneath the hood.
"State your business," the masked man said calmly.
Calik straightened despite the pain, towering a full head above the already tall elf as he stepped forward, his limp barely concealed. "I am Calik, Son of Fael," he said. "I speak for the Demon Clans. Show me to him."
The masked elf studied him for a long moment before chuckling softly. He turned slightly to another masked figure nearby. "Just as he said it would be."
He leaned closer and murmured, "Tell Drakos pathway three-six-two is the reality."
The second figure nodded once and vanished down a side corridor.
The masked elf turned back to Calik. "I am Eryk. Follow me. He's expecting you."
They entered the mountain, the interior opening into a cavernous hall carved deep into the stone. Workers of many species labored across platforms and scaffolding, mining ore and forging metal, while masked Inquisitors observed from above.
Calik's gaze lingered on a group of short, broad figures hammering molten steel with precise, practiced movements. "You have dwarves," he muttered.
Eryk chuckled. "Indeed we do."
"Slaves?" Calik asked flatly.
"No," Eryk replied without hesitation. "They are here willingly."
Calik scoffed. "For what purpose do they give you their mountain and their hands?"
"They want to be on the right side of history," Eryk said calmly. " It's in the dwarves nature to serve. All good servants need a good master. But kings and nobles are corrupt and unjust. Drakos? He is not."
Calik snorted. "I don't care about right or wrong. I just want to eviscerate those who side themselves with my brother's killers."
Eryk smiled beneath his mask. "You'll understand when you meet him."