Chapter 5: Fort Duskmoor
The eastern skies burned with a faint crimson as Jean crested the ridge and gazed down upon Fort Duskmoor.
It sat wedged in a valley of dead trees and scorched soil, wrapped in thick fog and fortified by black stone walls rising like jagged fangs. The fort was less a bastion of honor and more a wound in the land—a scar from the border wars long past. Smoke curled from its chimneys. Men paced the walls with drawn bows and tired eyes.
Even Whitney seemed reluctant to approach.
A pair of scouts emerged from the brush ahead, weapons raised.
"Halt! State your allegiance!"
Jean raised her crest—the golden insignia of the Luther Clan, glimmering beneath her cloak.
"I am Jean Luther," she declared. "Emissary of Light and Knight-Candidate. I come under Grand Patriarch orders."
The guards blinked, then hurried back into the fort. Moments later, the gates creaked open.
She stepped through.
Inside, the atmosphere was grim. Soldiers in dented armor sat hunched by dying fires. Medics rushed between tents. The stench of rot and blood choked the air.
A voice called from the stone stair.
"You're late."
Jean turned.
A tall woman stood above her in cracked black armor, half her face scarred by flame. One eye gone. The other cold as ice.
Commander Freya Voss.
Veteran of three campaigns. Grand Master. A warhound of the Luther Clan.
Jean saluted. "Reporting for assessment."
Freya descended slowly, boots echoing on the steps. She stopped before Jean, eyeing her from head to toe.
"You're the one with the glowing wolf and the goddess mark," she said bluntly. "I was expecting a little more… fire."
Jean didn't flinch. "The fire comes when it's needed."
Freya raised a brow, then motioned for her to follow.
"The fort is dying. Every night, something crawls from the Shadewood and takes more of my men. Not bandits. Not beasts. Something worse."
They walked along the rampart. Beyond the walls, the Shadewood forest lay still—unnaturally still. Not a bird. Not a breath of wind.
Jean frowned. "What is it?"
Freya stopped. "They call it a Hollowborn. We don't know what it is. Aura doesn't work well on it. Blades bounce off it. And every man we send… doesn't come back whole."
Jean exchanged a look with Whitney.
"I'll kill it," she said.
Freya laughed once—dry and bitter. "They all said that. You're just a girl with a glowing dog."
"No," Jean replied, drawing her blade. "I'm the sword of the goddess."
That night, Jean waited at the edge of the forest, Whitney by her side, golden aura pulsing through the darkness.
The Hollowborn came with the fog.
It moved like water, silent and formless, with a face made of screaming shadows and a voice that whispered in a dozen tongues.
Jean stood firm. Her aura flared, and the mark of Celeste ignited across her back.
She pointed her blade.
"Return to the abyss."
The Hollowborn screamed—and charged.
The forest exploded in light.
---
Back at Fort Duskmoor, before dawn…
Commander Freya stood at the gate, armor half-fastened, jaw clenched.
Then came the sound—slow, steady footsteps.
Out of the mist walked Jean, bloodied but unbowed. Her sword shimmered with faint gold, and Whitney stalked beside her, limping but alive.
In Jean's other hand, she dragged the corpse of the Hollowborn—now shriveled, bound in chains of light.
She dropped it at Freya's feet.
"Consider the fort secured," Jean said.
Freya stared. Then, slowly… she smiled.
"Maybe the fire's there after all."
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