Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast

The door shut softly behind Bennet, the sound like a seal on fate.

For a long, fraught heartbeat neither man spoke.

Kieran stood in the half-light, gaunt and hollow-eyed, and Bennet almost didn't recognize the friend he once knew.

Then, suddenly, Kieran's hand shot out and seized Bennet's forearm, fingers digging in with desperate force.

Bennet returned the clasp just as hard, their grips tightening until it hurt, a silent contest of will and proof of life.

Kieran's voice cracked, raw with relief and disbelief: "It's really you?"

Bennet tightened his grip, steady and unyielding.

"It's me, Mudrat," he said, using a nickname, "I'm here."

"Gods... It is you..." Kieran's eyes shimmered, a laugh and relief tangled together, "I never thought they'd send you. Never thought they'd risk it."

The words trembled in the stale air, carrying years of loneliness, fear, and stubborn hope.

"You think I'd let you rot?" Bennet shot back, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He pulled him into a brief embrace.

Kieran laughed—ragged, breathless, "You look like you've been wrestling shadows for weeks."

"And you look like you haven't bathed since," Bennet retorted.

Their laughter filled the barn for an instant, echoing against hollow boards.

But even as it rang out, Bennet's eyes swept the cracks in the wall, noting lantern light shifting outside, and Kieran's shoulders twitched at every gust of wind. The tension never left entirely—it only loosened enough to let them breathe.

When the mirth ebbed, Bennet's face hardened, "Let's get you out of here, Kieran."

"Not tonight, Bennet. Patrol are about to get worse in the next few coming hours," Kieran's expression sobered, "they have tripled since the dragon's summoning. They sweep the alleys at random hours outside of the planned patrol routines, sometimes disguised as common folk. Even the taverns have eyes now."

As if to prove his point, he stood and checked a crude charm hung on the barn doorframe, watching it sway before settling.

Only then did he sit back down, breathing out slowly.

Bennet frowned, glancing toward the gaps in the barn boards, "I noticed the guards at the gate—sharper than they used to be. Too sharp for a border village."

Kieran motioned toward the back of the barn, lowering his voice, "Come on, I'd rather not wait out the patrols standing here. Safer to sit in my corner hideout."

He led Bennet to a darker recess where a small cot and a crate served as his makeshift shelter.

A ragged blanket was draped over the cot, and scraps of parchment lay scattered across the crate as if it doubled as a desk.

They both sat down, the rough boards creaking under their weight, shadows thick around them. The air smelled of hay and dust, but for the first time that night, Bennet felt they could speak without every word leaking into the street outside.

Still, his gaze tracked every sound—the drip of rain, the snap of timber—as if the world might break in at any moment.

Bennet glanced at the setup and murmured, "So this is what kept you alive here huh."

Kieran gave a dry chuckle, "Not much, but it's mine. Safer than taverns and quieter than cellars. A man learns to make do."

He reached out and adjusted the blanket as if proving its presence calmed him.

Bennet nodded, leaning back, his eyes scanning the corners, "Must still feels like home compared to what you've been through."

Kieran shrugged, fatigue in his smile, "Four walls that don't talk back. That's all I ever asked for."

Bennet studied the corners again—the patched blanket, the candle-dripped crate, the careful arrangement of parchment scraps like half-finished maps. He realized Kieran had built a fortress out of scraps, but one that still needed constant vigilance.

"Tell me everything, what would require you to signal the highest level of retrieval," Bennet said at last, his voice low enough that it felt like it sank into the wood, "From the start. Don't spare me."

Kieran's jaw worked. He stared at the candle stubs, at the blackened wick, as if the words were trapped there. When he spoke, they came rough-edged, fragments at first.

"Ravos," he whispered, "He's back. But not the man we knew. He's… more. An Archlich."

Bennet's breath hitched.

A memory flashed—lecture halls in Whitehold, Ravos standing at the dais with ink-stained fingers and a mind like a whetstone.

'A scholar once,' Bennet thought, 'How far you fell.'

Kieran's fingers tightened on the crate, "They say he crossed a threshold most never even find. Necromancy elevated—ritual perfected. The first proof was Windbreak."

He swallowed, "That dragon wasn't a beast called from legend. It was summoned. Bound. And the price…"

His voice thinned, "A hundred thousand souls."

Bennet's stomach clenched, "How?"

Kieran shook his head slowly, "I didn't see it, Bennet. I never had the time. The moment I realized what was happening, I had to run. Staying longer would've been a death sentence."

Bennet closed his eyes briefly. He remembered back during their time in the academy, Ravos argued in Whitehold that necromancy could spare lives—raise fallen plowmen to finish harvests after plague.

'A temporary gift against famine,' he'd said.

The memory curdled.

'And now you burn a hundred thousand lives to chain the sky.'

Kieran went on, the rhythm of his words steadier now, as if surrendering to the telling, "I gathered what I could—names, times, whispers. I marked their next targets on a baker's ledger to smuggle it out. Titan's Gate is first—break the spine of the mountain road. Ironwatch and Riverward Bastion next, to starve the west. They don't want battles—they want guarantees."

"What about numbers," Bennet said, "Estimates."

"Two legions for Titan's Gate, reinforced by siege towers they're hauling from the forges at Darksconce. A third legion split between Ironwatch and Riverward—to pin both until supplies run dry. Cavalry from the Ash Ranges as raiders. And over it all, the dragon—if they can feed the ritual again before winter," Kieran's mouth trembled, "They talked about the next 'harvest.' As if people were wheat."

The boards seemed to creak louder.

Bennet leaned in, "Dates?"

"Before winter for Titan's Gate," Kieran said, eyes narrowing as he calculated aloud, "If they move fast, it could be next month. If they stretch resources, perhaps two, even three. But always before the snows. They want the Gate down before the passes close."

He rubbed his temples, "I've sketched routes in my head so many times I see them when I close my eyes."

Bennet nodded once, committing each measure to a silent ledger, "And the dead?"

Kieran's throat worked, "Ravos calls it 'perfection.' He raises them… smooth, like pouring water from a jug. Bodies stiffen, then move, the joints adjusting with sick little clicks until they find a soldier's stance. Some still wear Eldoria's insignia."

His voice frayed, "I recognized a captain from Ironvale. He saluted. Not to me. To Ravos."

'They turn our dead into banners against us,' rage flared hot and clean in Bennet's chest as his jaw ached. He remembered council debates in Whitehold, watching younger Ravos argue that necromancy, regulated, could save harvest towns in bad winters.

Gentle hands. Measured voice. How did that man turn into this?

Kieran scrubbed his face and kept going, an avalanche now, "They fear him, Bennet. Not Eldoria—him. Malagar's swagger fades when Ravos enters. Veyron's eyes avoid the staff. Kaelis changes his tone like a bootlicker. And Aldros… Aldros acts like he holds Ravos by the leash, but every time Ravos speaks, the leash looks like it's around the king's throat."

Bennet absorbed it in silence, the shape of the enemy clarifying like ink drying on vellum. Kieran's voice frayed and mended, but it never stopped.

That was courage, Bennet thought—not the absence of fear, but speech despite it.

"What about routes?" Bennet asked, "How do they seed their scouts? Where do they stage?"

"Supply lines run east-west along the slate road behind the Ash Ridges," Kieran said, closing his eyes to summon the map, "They rotate scouts in pairs—hawks overhead, riders beneath. Staging yards near Halver's Pit for siege timber, then south to Darksconce's forges. The legion at Titan's Gate will split into three spearheads—center to press the keep, flanks to climb the goat trails and cut off relief."

"Commanders?"

"My best guess... Malagar for the Gate—he wants the glory. Kaelis south to bleed the valleys around Ironwatch. Veyron holds the reserve—he'll move last, sweep what survives and claim he planned it so. Ravos doesn't care which crest takes credit. He only cares the ledger balances."

"Casualty thresholds? Do they have a figure before they break off?" Bennet asked.

Kieran laughed without humor, "They don't plan to break off. Ravos's dead don't mutiny, don't tire, don't demand pay. They'll grind until the walls fall or the defenders starve. If the living falter, he'll just add to the ranks from the field."

The barn felt smaller with every word as the scenario played out in his head.

Bennet pictured Titan's Gate under a winter sky, cold stone and brave men facing hunger and a tireless line that never thinned.

'This is not a siege. It's an equation,' he thought, 'And Ravos has removed the variables that make men stop.'

Kieran's hands trembled. He pressed his palms flat on his knees, forced them still.

"I wrote it all down once," he said, "Burned it when they got too close. Now it's just…"

He tapped his temple, "in here."

"Thank you for what you've done," Bennet said, his voice steady, "You carried this alone when no one else could. That's more than half the war."

Kieran huffed something like a laugh and shook his head, "Do you remember him? Ravos in Whitehold? The way he'd stay after lectures arguing with masters about ethics—how to bind a soul without tearing it, how to unmake a curse without leaving scars?"

"I remember," Bennet said, "I'm actually replaying quite a bit of what I remember about him right now..."

The memory ached, "he said necromancy could be a tourniquet. Temporary. To stop the bleeding until the healer came."

Kieran's mouth twisted, "Now he is the knife."

For a long while, silence followed, settling heavy between them as the weight of every word lingered.