The ground shook under the weight of Ralkor the Ironhide's steps. Each footfall was like a war drum, heavy and unrelenting, sending ripples of pressure through the Blood Valley's cursed soil. His skin gleamed faintly under the blood-red moon, like steel hammered and forged by the gods themselves. Where Fenric was wild savagery and Vexa was speed incarnate, Ralkor stood as the unyielding wall of the werewolf champions.
Across from him, Syran emerged from the shadows, his cloak of darkness fluttering unnaturally despite the still air. His pale eyes glimmered like blades in the night. Unlike Gordon's bloody grandeur or Aamir's playful dominance, Syran fought in silence, his presence a chilling reminder that death often came without sound.
Ralkor cracked his neck and growled.
"You shadow-walker… come, break yourself upon me. None has pierced the Ironhide."
Syran tilted his head, lips curling slightly.
"Then tonight, your legend ends."
