The drums began at dawn.
They were not real drums—not built, not played—but they thundered just the same. Deep, unrelenting, pulsing through the bones of the mountain. Every warrior in the valley looked up.
The gate groaned.
Stone cracked. Chains loosened. The ground trembled as the first true breath of whatever lay behind the gate shivered into the world.
Leon and his group stood at the ridge above, backs straight, weapons ready. The mist behind them was gone. The mountain had sealed them in. There was no retreat.
Tomas drew both blades. Mira fastened her gloves. Alden checked his arrows. Elena stood beside Leon, silent, steady.
The boy didn't speak.
He just looked ahead.
The gate exploded outward.
Not shattered. Not broken. Peeled—layer by layer, as though something inside had grown too large to be contained. A burst of red-black light surged through the opening, and then came the sound.
Screaming.
But not from one throat.
Thousands.
