The wind never seemed to stop in the Ashen Expanse, a ceaseless howl that carved through the ridges with a raw, unforgiving edge. It tugged at the riders' cloaks, snapping the heavy wool against their legs, and stung their eyes with fine dust that gritted between their teeth and clung to their wind-chapped skin. Even now, as the expedition team moved eastward in a tight column, their horses' hooves thudding dully on the cracked earth, the wind whispered low warnings between the rocks—a sibilant hiss that rose from the stone itself, as if the land resented their return, its breath laced with the faint, acrid tang of ash and sun-baked shale.
Corren Hale rode at the front, eyes narrowed beneath his hood, its shadow cutting across his weathered face, etched with lines of dust and resolve. The fire-lit stories of Rhaznakh's exile tribe still swirled in his head: fractured clans bound by trade and rivalry, valleys alive with barter, a westward threat looming like a shadow not yet cast across the horizon. But it was something else that gnawed at him now—the silence, thick and oppressive, pressing against the wind's relentless drone. They had traveled nearly a week already on horseback—moving fast, as mounted scouts, covering ground most expeditions would struggle to cross in twice the time. The Dominion had sent cavalry for a reason: speed, agility, survival, their mounts' flanks lathered with sweat and dust. Yet even speed did little to shrink the Ashen Expanse's vast, desolate reach, its emptiness stretching like a shroud over their path.
They had seen no signs of pursuit, no other tribes—just the occasional vulture circling high, a dark speck against the gray haze. But the silence… it was wrong, a stillness that prickled Corren's instincts like a blade held too close.
He gave a subtle hand signal, his gloved fingers flexing stiffly in the chill. The riders behind him tightened formation, their reins creaking, blades clinking faintly against saddles.
The canyon ahead loomed narrow—too narrow—its black stone walls rising steep and twisted, their surfaces warped by ancient heat, shimmering faintly with veins of obsidian that caught the muted light. The path wound like a funnel toward a choke point barely wide enough for a wagon, the air within heavy with trapped dust that swirled in lazy eddies, coating their tongues with grit.
"Keep weapons ready," he muttered, his voice a low rasp swallowed by the wind's wail.
They didn't reach the middle before the ambush erupted.
A scream—more roar than voice—tore through the wind, raw and guttural, shattering the silence. Figures leapt from behind stone outcrops, snarling and wild-eyed, their shapes bursting from the shadows with feral speed. Orcs, but not like Rhaznakh's disciplined tribe—these were leaner, hungrier, their frames taut with desperation. Their gear was a chaotic patchwork: rusted swords with notched edges, jagged spears hafted with splintered wood, even sharpened bone knives glinting wickedly. Their faces bore no ceremonial paint, only grime caked into deep lines, scars crisscrossing their gray-green skin like road maps of ruin—bandits forged by the Expanse's brutality.
Corren's sword came free in an instant, its steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. "Brace!"
The cavalry scattered and turned, forming a crescent line, hooves kicking up ash in choking clouds. The orcs struck from both sides, lunging with guttural cries, clawing to drag riders from their saddles, their hands slick with sweat and dirt.
The fight was ugly, fast, visceral—lacking elegance, driven by instinct, steel, and blood. One scout grunted as a spear pierced his thigh, crimson blooming through his leathers, before he dropped the attacker with a hatchet's wet crunch, the blade biting deep. Another fought from horseback, slashing down with a curved saber as his mount reared, its hooves slamming a bandit's chest with a sickening crack, dust swirling around the thrashing form. Corren took down two himself, his blade flashing once, twice, leaving arcs of red splattered across the ash, the coppery tang sharp in the air. But the orcs fought like cornered beasts—one leapt barehanded, teeth sinking into a rider's shoulder with a snarl before Corren drove a dagger through its spine, dark blood bubbling as it crumpled.
And then, just as quickly as it began, it ended, the last bandits fleeing into the haze, their ragged forms vanishing like ghosts into the stone's embrace.
Breathing hard, Corren turned to check his men, his chest heaving, breath fogging in the chill. One wounded, his leg bound with a torn cloak strip, grimacing as he clutched the reins. Two bruised, their faces mottled with purple, eyes still sharp. None dead. He muttered a prayer of thanks under his breath, the words lost to the wind—then turned to where one fallen orc lay, its body twisted and broken, eyes still open, glassy and unseeing. A necklace of iron nails clinked faintly around its neck, stirred by the breeze. Carved into its arm, in jagged, deliberate scars, was a symbol Corren knew from old Dominion records: a crescent over flame—an exile mark, a war sign.
"These weren't just outcasts," he murmured, his voice rough with realization, barely audible over the wind's low moan. "They've banded together."
The second week passed slower, each mile a slog through the Expanse's unrelenting grip. Storms rolled in from the west—dry winds laced with grit, whipping the ash into choking spirals that clawed at their cloaks and stung their skin. For a full day, they were forced to take shelter in the remains of a broken stone column, its weathered surface pitted and cold, huddling in their cloaks as the wind howled around them like wolves in mourning, the air thick with dust that coated their throats. Their rations thinned, the hardtack crumbling to powder in their packs. One horse lamed itself on a jagged outcrop, its limp slowing their pace; another threw a shoe, the metal lost to the ash.
But with each passing day, the land began to shift, its desolation softening at the edges. First, it was subtle—a cairn of stacked stones left by a Dominion patrol, its edges weathered but steady. Then a path emerged—packed dirt marked with stone wedges, rutted by hooves and wheels. A week later, they passed a supply station built against a rock shelf, its timber walls weathered but firm, stocked with crates of iron nails, salted meat wrapped in burlap, and ash-treated lumber that smelled faintly of char.
Soon after, they skirted the edges of the new quarry, where the air thrummed with life—laborers shouting over the clang of tools, their hammers ringing against stone, tall scaffolds framing the ridge like skeletal fingers against the sky. Cranes spun by pulleys creaked in the wind, and the air reeked of sweat, oil, and ambition, a sharp contrast to the Expanse's barren hush.
And then, finally—on the fourteenth day since they'd left the orc camp behind—they crested the final hill, the horses' breaths puffing white in the cooling dusk.
And Emberhold lay before them, no longer a frontier outpost but something more.
From the rise, it gleamed like a forge-built city rising from the earth, its great curtain wall—still unfinished—curling around the expanding heart of the Dominion, its dark stone streaked with quarry dust. Inside, rooftops and towers jutted skyward, bristling with scaffolds and crimson banners fluttering in the breeze, plumes of smoke trailing from forges that burned day and night, their glow pulsing against the gathering dark. Streets bustled with wagons, carts rattling over cobble, and men in uniforms bearing the phoenix emblem, their voices a faint hum rising from below.
Corren slowed his horse, the reins taut in his gloved hands, dust settling around him.
The others followed, quiet, awe softening even the hardest faces, their eyes reflecting the city's distant lights.
A thin smile touched Corren's lips, faint but real, cutting through the grime on his face. The horizon behind them still reeked of blood, dust, and uncertainty, its shadow lingering in his bones.
But this…
This was foundation, solid and growing, a beacon forged from the ash.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice steady, carrying over the wind's dying wail.
And they rode for the gates, hooves pounding the earth, the city's warmth calling them forward.