Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast

The descent began in a hush that felt deliberate, as if the ravine itself were listening.

Water bled from cracks high above and fell in patient drops that clicked against stone, the sound rippling forward and back until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Torchlight wobbled over slick walls and then vanished into seams of darkness where the flame could not follow.

Captain Voln lifted his torch higher and slowed the column with a clenched fist at shoulder height. He could hear the men behind him trying to quiet their kit: leather straps adjusted; scabbards pressed tight to thigh; the hollow rattle of a loose buckle stilled by a gloved hand.

On nights like this, discipline was a sound.

"Feels wrong, sir," one of the forwards murmured, voice barely more than breath. "Too quiet for a hunt."

"Quiet's better than screaming," another tried, and even that scrap of humour came out brittle.

"Keep your spacing," Voln said without looking back. "No unnecessary noise, no bright light—anything that might give us away, you keep it buried."

He did not add that even their own breathing felt too loud here.

The gorge was a throat, wet and narrow, with walls that leaned and listened. When he paused, the echoes did too, as though the stone itself held its breath to hear if what they were hunting would notice them.

A pebble ticked somewhere overhead and skittered down the slope to their left. Half the line flinched before Voln's open palm steadied them again.

Above, the ridge carried two still figures on horseback—the commander and his vice. For a moment, Voln's attention followed their outlines against the shifting glow, but his eyes were drawn back down, past the ridge's lip, toward the ravine mouth.

The Netherbreed stood where the slope became shadow, massive and unmoving, its sigils pulsing like coals kindled by a bellows, a rhythm that did not belong to any living heart.

Voln felt the throb of it in his forearms and down the haft of his spear, a faint vibration that made the weapon feel thinner in his grip. It's leashed, he told himself, It obeys. The thought did not sit with him. It slid. For a moment, fear crept up his spine, cold and certain. But he forced his shoulders square, tightening his grip until the tremor left his hands. The men needed his steadiness more than he needed his fear.

He turned his head just enough for his voice to reach the line without echoing.

"Keep moving," he whispered, "Stay low and keep your eyes sharp. If they know we're here before we're ready, none of us are leaving this gorge."

The quiet shuffle of compliance followed, and he led them forward again, each step slow and deliberate. Every step threw their light forward, and every step the light fell back from something it could not touch.

"Captain," came another whisper from the point, "Something ahead."

Voln eased forward until he stood beside the scout. The man's torch wavered slightly, its glow touching the rough boulders at the cave's entrance. For a moment, nothing moved—only the faint groan of the wind through the narrow stone. Then a low rumble rolled through the ground beneath them.

Voln froze. His instincts screamed before his mind caught up.

"Back!" he hissed.

The first boulder shifted—dust sifting down its side like falling sand—then another began to tremble. The sound swelled into a grinding roar as a whole section of the rock face gave way, boulders tumbling forward in a thunderous cascade.

"Move!" Voln shouted, throwing his arm forward as he shoved the scout aside.

The front line stumbled back, shields up as the rocks crashed down, kicking up clouds of white dust that blinded them.

Chunks of debris slammed into the ground where they'd stood seconds ago, splintering into shards. The air turned thick with grit.

"Report! Anyone hit?" Voln barked between coughs, waving his torch through the dust to keep track of his men.

A few muffled replies came back—most shaken, none clear.

Above, fragments still fell from the ledge, echoing like the slow beat of a drum. The collapse faded into uneasy quiet, and the dust drifted down in slow sheets.

Voln spat grit from his mouth and squinted toward the cave entrance. The rocks had sealed part of it—no, not sealed. Reshaped. The collapse had narrowed the mouth, forming a jagged arch that was now wide enough for only one or two men to enter at a time.

He felt the shift of unease in his gut.

"That wasn't random," he muttered under his breath.

The scout nodded shakily beside him, "Could've been set that way."

"Or baited," Voln said grimly. He looked toward the shadowed entrance where the dust still swirled. The silence after the fall was too clean, too deliberate, "They know we're close."

He paused a beat, scanning the narrow entrance, then made his decision.

"We hold here to scout the area," he said, "Set a temporary camp—quietly. I want half the men checking the perimeter, the other half securing the ridge. I am not going to have any unnecessary deaths."

He turned toward the scout nearest him, "Send a small team to the cave mouth—three men. I want eyes on that entrance and I want them back the moment they see anything move."

The scout nodded and jogged off toward the rear to gather his men. Voln watched him go, the man's silhouette vanishing into the dust.

Then he heard it—a sharp, cracking sound that didn't belong to the settling stone.

One of the soldiers at the ridge called out softly, "Captain? Something—"

The rest of the sentence was lost to a roar of motion.

A streak of molten light tore through the dark. The Netherbreed lunged from the shadowed edge like a nightmare unbound. Its claw swept through the air, catching the scout mid-run as he raced to inform the others.

The strike hit him square in the back, lifting him clean off his feet before he struck the wall with a sickening crunch.

Screams followed. The soldiers froze in disbelief as blood sprayed across the stone.

The Netherbreed's chest rose and fell with slow, volcanic rhythm, each exhaling a pulse of fire that rolled over the soldiers like a furnace wind. Torches guttered out under the blast, plunging half the ravine into darkness.

"Steady!" Voln barked, his own voice rasping from the grit in his throat. He could taste the air—iron, ash, and fear.

The beast crouched low, claws scoring the rock. It wasn't charging yet. It was studying them.

One soldier broke ranks, trembling. "Sir—it's watching us!"

"Keep your shield up and your mouth shut," Voln snapped. He could feel every heartbeat echoing through his armor.

He looked up at the ridge—but the spot where the commander and his vice had stood was empty.

Voln blinked, disbelieving, before a familiar voice cut through the air like a knife.

"What are you doing, Captain?" The commander's tone was mockingly calm, drifting down the slope from a distance.

Voln turned, eyes searching, and saw them emerging slowly through the haze—horses moving in deliberate rhythm, armour glinting faintly under the dying torchlight.

The commander rode ahead, visor lowered, the vice following in silence.

"Was this the plan?" the commander continued, voice smooth but biting, "To stand there and let them study you?"

Voln swallowed hard, tension prickling the back of his neck.

He wanted to answer, but before the words formed, the commander lifted his gauntlet—sigils along his arm flaring to life.

The Netherbreed turned instantly, like a puppet pulled by strings. Its movements slowed, the molten glow beneath its hide dimming from fierce orange to a faint ember pulse.

The air cooled slightly as its breathing steadied.

Voln stared at the creature, disbelief tightening his features.

"You—You control it," he said, voice rough, "It moves on your command."

The commander's visor tilted toward him, a faint glimmer of amusement in his tone, "Of course, Captain. Did you think we'd unleash such a beast without a leash?"

Voln's jaw clenched, "Then why did you let it attack my men? That scout didn't even—"

The commander's horse shifted, cutting off his words as Eryndor cut in, his tone dropping into a colder one, "Because your men were never meant to rest here. This delay serves no purpose."

Voln took a step forward, anger flaring through his fatigue, "That cave may be laced with traps. Charging in without caution will get more of us killed. We don't even know what's waiting inside."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the soft crackle of cooling stone. Voln met the commander's gaze—or what little he could see through the slit of that black visor.

The air between them shimmered faintly with the dying heat, carrying the scent of scorched leather and blood.

Eryndor's horse pawed at the ground, impatient, its eyes reflecting the Netherbreed's dim light.

"You speak of traps, Captain," the commander said at last, voice smooth and low, "And yet you seem to forget—the greatest trap is time. Every moment you waste gives them another step toward the border."

Voln's jaw tightened, "And if that trap kills half the men under my command, what then? Will the Inquisitor write their names into his glory?"

Eryndor's tone sharpened, slicing through the air, "If this mission fails, there will be no names left to remember. The two we pursue have knowledge of the capital's secrets—of the military plans of Malakar. They are not mere criminals, Captain. They are Zavareth's enemies."

The words struck Voln harder than he expected.

"You mean to tell me—"

"I mean to tell you," Eryndor interrupted, leaning forward slightly, "that if they live to reach another kingdom, our enemies will unearth truths that could burn the heart of Zavareth from the inside out. The Inquisitor does not permit such possibilities."

A hush fell over the soldiers who still lingered nearby, their armor dulled with ash. No one moved. Even the Netherbreed remained still, its claws half-buried in the rock, head bowed as if listening to its master's will.

Voln's hand tightened around the shaft of his spear. His voice was quieter now but no less firm, "And what of us, then? Are we nothing but tinder for that fire?"

Eryndor tilted his head. "You are soldiers of Zavareth. You are the flame that consumes what must not remain."