HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The heavy council doors slammed shut behind Ryon, their echo rolling down the marble corridor like the final toll of a funeral bell. The air outside the chamber felt colder, sharper, carrying with it the acrid taste of ash drifting through the high windows. His jaw was still tight from the last words he had spoken—words that had split the council in half and set his course in stone. The vow was made. No turning back now.

He descended the stairwell in long strides, his boots striking each step like drumbeats. The council chamber sat high in the central spire, and the winding descent forced him to pass mural after mural depicting the history of the South—great wars, treaties, and moments of unity long past. Tonight, those painted faces felt like they were watching him, judging whether his defiance was wisdom or folly.

At the base of the stairs, Captain Veyra waited in the shadow of a torch sconce, her arms folded, her expression unreadable. She had been his silent ally through the storm inside, her dark eyes tracking every insult hurled his way without ever once flinching.

"They're not all against you," she said softly as he approached.

"They're enough against me to make this dangerous," Ryon replied, adjusting the sword at his hip. "But they've forced my hand. If we wait for their permission to act, the North will be through the gates before the month's end."

Veyra nodded once, then glanced toward the courtyard beyond the archway. "You should see the wall. The ashstorm's worsened. Scouts spotted movement in the haze—shapes too large to be ordinary patrols."

That stopped him. "Northmen?"

"Not just Northmen," she said, her voice lowering. "Something else. The old veterans are whispering about creatures they haven't seen since the Second Rift."

The Second Rift—Ryon remembered the stories. Creatures birthed from the poisoned lands between the North and South, things neither side could control. If they were moving again, it meant the fragile barrier between realms was breaking.

He followed her out into the courtyard, the chill air striking his face. The sky above was a roiling sea of ash clouds, turning the daylight into a dim, bruised twilight. The wind carried faint whispers, the sound of distant horns—or perhaps only the wind howling through the broken northern passes.

Dozens of soldiers were gathered near the inner wall, their armor dusted grey. At the rampart, Commander Halric himself stood, his broad frame hunched against the gale. Ryon and Veyra climbed the stone steps, the grit stinging their eyes as they emerged onto the battlement.

From here, the land beyond stretched into an endless, shifting fog of ash. Visibility was poor, but Ryon's sharp eyes caught the outlines—tall, hunched forms moving in the distance, their gait wrong, too smooth and too deliberate to be simple men.

"They've been pacing the edge of our sight for an hour," Halric said without looking at him. "Every time we ready the ballistae, they vanish into the haze. They're testing us. Waiting for something."

"Waiting for the council to hesitate," Ryon muttered.

Halric's grimace deepened. "You spoke boldly in there, boy. But bold words don't hold a wall."

"No," Ryon agreed, "but decisive action does. I'll lead a vanguard beyond the outer watch. I want to see what we're dealing with before the storm worsens."

Veyra's head snapped toward him. "That's suicide if you go now—"

"—it's suicide if we sit here and do nothing," Ryon interrupted. "If they breach the outer lines without warning, the city won't have time to mount a defense."

Halric studied him for a long moment before giving a single nod. "Take twenty of my best. Move fast, return faster. If you're not back by nightfall, I'm sealing the gates."

Ryon turned to Veyra. "You're with me."

Her sigh was heavy but resigned. "You always drag me into the worst parts of your plans."

The vanguard assembled quickly—twenty riders clad in reinforced leather and chain, faces wrapped in ashcloths. Ryon mounted his black warhorse, Nyvar, feeling the animal's muscles tense beneath him. The gates groaned open, spilling a plume of dust as the wind forced its way inside.

They rode into the storm.

The world beyond the walls was a ghostland—ashen dunes shifting like tides under the relentless wind, skeletal remains of old siege towers half-buried in the dust. The sound of hooves was muffled, as though the ash swallowed noise as well as light.

Half an hour into the ride, the first shadow moved.

It darted across a ridge to their left, impossibly fast, its shape indistinct but tall—too tall. Ryon raised a fist, halting the column. Eyes scanned the haze. Another shape emerged ahead, then vanished. Then another to the right.

"They're circling," Veyra said, drawing her bow.

The ash deepened suddenly, a swirl like a whirlpool forming around them. From that grey curtain, the first creature stepped into view.

It was manlike in outline but wrong in every detail—skin mottled with ashstone scales, eyes burning faintly red. Its limbs were elongated, its hands tipped with blackened claws. When it opened its mouth, the sound that came out was not a roar but a long, scraping hiss, like metal grinding over stone.

Ryon drew his sword in one smooth motion, the steel gleaming dully in the dim light. "Formation!"

The creature lunged, impossibly quick. Steel rang, horses screamed, and the haze erupted with movement as more of the scaled horrors poured in from all sides.

The next minutes were chaos—blades flashing, arrows whistling, creatures shrieking in tones that made the hair rise on Ryon's neck. One of the riders was dragged screaming into the ash, his cries cut off abruptly. Another went down under a pile of claws and snapping jaws.

Ryon's blade cleaved through one creature's neck, the black blood spraying hot against the cold wind. Veyra's arrow found the eye of another, dropping it mid-lunge.

But for every one they cut down, two more emerged from the storm.

"We can't hold here!" Veyra shouted, loosing another arrow.

Ryon knew she was right. This was no probing attack—this was an ambush meant to wipe them out.

"Fall back to the ridge!" he ordered. "Move!"

They rode hard, the surviving riders clinging to formation as they fought their way to higher ground. The creatures followed, their silhouettes flickering in and out of the ash like phantoms.

At the crest of the ridge, Ryon wheeled Nyvar around. The city was a faint blur in the distance, its walls barely visible through the storm. Between them and safety, the creatures were closing in.

He raised his sword high, its point catching the meager light. "Hold! Make them pay for every step!"

The final clash was brutal. Steel bit into scaled flesh, claws raked across shields, the wind howled like a living thing. Ryon fought until his arms ached, until the world narrowed to the flash of blades and the sound of his own heartbeat.

And then—horns.

Faint but clear, the deep blare of the southern warhorn rolled across the ash. From the city's direction came a wave of reinforcements—mounted lancers with banners streaming, their charge cutting through the storm like a knife.

The creatures hesitated, then retreated, vanishing into the haze as suddenly as they had appeared.

When the last was gone, Ryon lowered his blade, chest heaving. Around him, fewer than half the original twenty riders remained. The ash was slick with black blood and littered with broken weapons.

Veyra pulled her scarf down, her face pale. "If these things are working with the North—"

"They're not working with the North," Ryon said, his voice grim. "They're clearing the way for something worse."

He looked toward the city, toward the distant council chamber where arguments still raged while death crept closer.

And he knew the next battle would not wait for their permission.