The southern gates yawned wide, their heavy timbers groaning as chains clattered and wheels creaked. Beyond lay the long, jagged spine of the road to Hollow Pass—a ribbon of stone cutting through ravines and ridges, veiled by a mist that clung stubbornly to the earth. The wind carried the iron taste of the north already, sharp and invasive, like a reminder that the storm was near.

The war host of the South began its march.

Boots thundered in cadence, drums pounded the tempo, banners flared crimson and black in the morning haze. War wagons groaned under the weight of supplies, their wheels leaving deep scars in the road. War-horns blared intermittently, not in celebration, but to remind the army that silence was death, that rhythm meant survival.

Behind Ryon, the host stretched like a living serpent of iron and fire—infantry, cavalry, supply lines, healers, and mages, all locked into the rhythm of inevitability. From the youngest recruits with eyes too wide, to scarred veterans who had long since forgotten what softness felt like, all bore the same weight of expectation: Hollow Pass awaited, and with it, the judgment of history.

At the vanguard, Ryon rode a midnight-black steed, its armor glinting faintly with enchantments that rippled like water in the mist. He sat tall in the saddle, his cloak whipping behind him like a living banner, his eyes fixed not on the road but on the horizon, as if daring it to reveal its secrets.

Beside him, Lyria guided her pale horse, her armor scorched in places but polished clean, her hair bound back in a braid that caught the dim light. Her face was as hard as carved stone, yet her hand brushed the hilt of her sword more often than she realized, as if her body remembered the rhythm of war before her mind did. Behind them marched the chosen guard—scarred veterans, mages cloaked in rune-stitched robes, captains whose eyes had learned not to blink at blood.

The system stirred. It did not whisper this time. It boomed.

"The hollow devours. Every step draws closer. The covenant weighs. Blood required. Choices inevitable."

The words struck through Ryon's skull like iron hammers. His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles whitened. He tilted his head slightly, listening though no one else could hear.

"How much blood?" he thought bitterly. "How many more before you are satisfied?"

The system pulsed back, cold and sharp as ice splitting stone:

"Enough to balance. Enough to bind. Enough to break you open until only the oath remains."

Ryon's jaw clenched. He did not reply.

The army moved, and the sound of their march was like a storm given flesh. Armor rattled, weapons clanked, voices muttered prayers, curses, or half-remembered songs. Every now and then a war-horn called out, rolling across the ridges, carrying both command and warning. Above, carrion birds wheeled, as though they had been waiting for this road to open all along.

The march wound its way through villages perched precariously on hillsides, their people spilling out to watch. Some bowed their heads as the banners of the South passed; others turned away, their faces pale, unwilling to watch their sons and husbands vanish into the mist. Children clutched their mothers' skirts, wide-eyed and silent, as the tide of war rolled past. The smell of hearth smoke and freshly tilled fields mingled with the metallic tang of weapons and the sweat of men and beasts.

By noon, the sun was little more than a pale smear across the mist. The march slowed as the road narrowed, forcing the legions to funnel between two ridges jagged with rock. Scouts flitted ahead like restless shadows, their signals flashing back—clear for now. But the unease grew heavier with each mile.

The mist thickened, curling around ankles and hooves, swallowing sound so that voices seemed too sharp, too close. Soldiers looked over their shoulders more often. Horses grew restless, their ears twitching as though hearing whispers in the fog.

Lyria guided her horse closer to Ryon's. "They will not wait for us at the walls of Hollow Pass," she said low, so only he could hear. "They'll strike before we reach it. They want us bleeding before the fortress comes into view."

Ryon gave a grim nod. "They'll try to break us in the choke-points. That's what I would do."

Her eyes narrowed. "And the system?"

He looked at her, surprised. It was rare for her to mention it aloud. Rare, even still, for her to accept its presence without bitterness.

"It wants blood," he admitted, voice taut. "More than usual."

She studied him, unreadable. Then she said softly, "Then we give it enough to keep it silent, but not so much that we forget we're human."

Before he could answer, a sudden horn-blast split the air. Scouts came galloping back, their faces pale, mouths stretched wide as they shouted over the thunder of hooves.

"Enemy banners! To the north ridge! They move to cut us off!"

Chaos rippled instantly through the column—captains barking orders, shields raised, spears bristling. The drums shifted, rolling into a harder tempo. Warhorses screamed and pawed at the ground, smelling blood before it was spilled.

The mist parted just enough for them to see—shapes on the ridge, dark against the pale sky. Northern banners, stiff in the wind. The glint of spearpoints. The silhouettes of cavalry waiting to descend like wolves on a penned herd.

The system's voice coiled once more through Ryon's skull, eager, exultant:

"Now the balance tips. Now the hollow feeds. Choose. Spill. Bind."

Ryon's eyes darkened, and he drew his blade, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. The sound cut through the tumult, sharp as lightning splitting sky.

"To arms!" he roared, his voice carrying like thunder over the ranks. "The north seeks to break us here—let us be the stone they shatter upon!"

The host bellowed in answer, a tide of voices that shook the ridges themselves. Shields locked. Spears braced. Mages raised their hands, sigils flaring to life along their skin.

The enemy began to move. The ridge seethed with motion, cavalry lowering their lances, infantry tightening their formation, the sound of their horns answering the south's like a challenge thrown across the void.

And with the mist curling tighter around the road, the march became a battlefield.