The mountain still smoked.Its halls bled silence.The Rift had been pushed back — not closed, but held — and those who survived were licking their wounds in the glow of false victory.
But far to the east —beyond the Iron Hills and past the snow-drowned fields of Dremghaal —another fire stirred.
Not of warmth.
But of intent.
There, across a frozen plain where even ravens refused to fly,a man in grey walked alone.
The Order had stirred again.
He moved like shadow draped in snow —long white hair caught in the wind,eyes hidden beneath a weatherworn hood.No scent. No breath.Only purpose.
At the edge of a jagged crevasse, he found Rurgan — the orc warlock — waiting with a cracked grin and rot-kissed tusks.
They did not greet with names.They had none worth speaking aloud.
Instead, the cloaked figure drew forth a rune wrapped in silk and ancient seals.
The Eye of Skaadii.
Not of this world.Not of any god.Birthed in the Rift.Fed by pain.It pulsed like a second heart, and it watched with no eye.
Rurgan took it in his palm —and the ice melted.
The warlock howled.
And the Order's plan began anew.
Meanwhile, in Druvadir, the Wyrm stirred.Not with rage —but with a strange tremor in its fire.As if something now watched it... not from the sky…but from beneath.
And the Riftborn —he would feel it, soon.
But for now, the mountain was calm.
Too calm.