Return Of Reckoning Link

A sharp cry pulled him from the memory. Down in the courtyard, a Bretonnian Questing Knight was arguing with a Witch Hunter. The knight’s voice carried, thick with frustration.

Sir Roland’s face was a mask of boiled leather and old ideals. “The beacons signal for aid that does not come.” return of reckoning

He stood on the shattered ramparts of the north gate, the jagged scar of a Hellcannon impact still raw beneath his boots. Below, the camp followers and refugees huddled around flickering braziers, their faces hollow. Once, these walls had bristled with the banners of a dozen knightly orders. Now, only a tattered griffon standard hung limp from the keep. A sharp cry pulled him from the memory

The mist curled around them as the three walked toward the war council. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the gate, a bell tolled—slow, wet, wrong. Sir Roland’s face was a mask of boiled

Kaelen pulled a crumpled parchment from his belt. It was stained with rust and something darker. “This came by gyrocopter last night. Karak Eight Peaks is not reclaimed—not fully—but enough dwarfs have retuned to their anvils. King Belegar promises two hundred Ironbreakers, if we can hold the line for thirty days.”

Kaelen touched the rune-brand on his forearm—the mark of the Slayer’s Oath, though he had never taken it. Not formally. His shame was not failure, but survival. Three winters ago, in the tunnels beneath the Howling Heights, he had watched his entire Stonebeard throng fall to a Bloodthirster’s axe. He had been the last, trapped under a collapse, listening to the daemon’s laughter fade as it turned toward the surface.