The ridge broke just before dusk.
Not with thunder.
Not with war cries.
With quiet.
Leon stepped over the final rise, boots sinking into blackened earth. Behind him, the column stretched—shadows moving like blood through the body of a dying world. Every face was drawn. Every breath counted.
Below them, the storm pulsed.
Not just wind or cloud. It was alive.
A circular wound carved into the land—ten miles across, maybe more. No trees. No snow. Just stone and bone and scarred glass where lightning had kissed the soil too long. At the very centre: a spire. Cracked. Leaning. Ancient.
And beside it—tents.
Black.
Dozens.
No banners.
But Leon knew who they belonged to.
"They've formed a war-ring," Mira murmured. "The old kind. From before the Age of Fire."
Kairis nodded. "Means they're calling others. A convergence."
Tomas squinted down. "And that's supposed to be good news?"
"No," Leon said. "It's a signal. They're ready."
Emily stepped beside him. "Then so are we."
