Rain hissed off the broken stones as the wind howled through the carcass of the fortress.
Kael stood at the edge of the cliff where the Stormbreaker battle had reached its crescendo. The blackened earth still smoldered. The corpses of Veilborn warriors lay twisted and half-buried in the cracked slate.
Blood had mixed with ash to form rivers of filth winding down the hillside.
His crimson hair was soaked and matted, his cloak torn and clinging to his frame. The great blade strapped across his back—Ashrend—hummed with quiet unease, reacting to the lingering corruption in the air.
Behind him, Lyra stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She'd fought like fire incarnate during the assault, twin blades flashing through the enemy like streaks of silver lightning. But now, her breath came heavy, her focus fixed on Kael as if waiting for him to shatter.
Darric limped after her, arm slung in a makeshift brace. His crossbow hung broken at his side, the upper limb cracked clean through. He gave Kael a half-smile through bruised lips.
"You're alive. Again. Which means you're either lucky or cursed."
Kael didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the stormclouds above, and beyond them, something unseen. His voice, when it came, was quiet.
"It woke something. Down there."
Lyra narrowed her eyes. "What did?"
"The relic. The beacon." Kael's hand clenched.
"It wasn't just a weapon. It… remembered me. Showed me things."
Darric winced as he sat on a rock, tugging a fragment of jagged steel from his leg. "Visions again?"
Kael nodded. "Blood. Fire. A throne without a name. My mark burned when I touched it—like it recognized me."
Lyra stepped closer. "And what did you see?"
Kael turned to her, eyes gleaming faintly red beneath the dripping strands of his hair.
"Myself. But… not like I am now. Older. Stronger. And not alone." He hesitated. "There were others. I don't know their names, but I felt them. All bearing the mark."
Darric frowned. "There are more like you?"
"I think there were. Or… there will be." Kael shook his head. "I don't know if it was a memory or a warning."
Lyra folded her arms. "Whatever it was, Malrik won't wait for us to understand it. He'll strike harder next time."
Kael's jaw tensed. "Then we strike first."
Lightning flickered across the far sky, outlining the silhouette of the broken mountain range ahead. A wind carried with it the scent of sulfur and something worse—rotting magic. The kind that crept into your bones and left your dreams hollow.
Kael turned away from the battlefield and began walking.
"There's another beacon," he said. "I saw it in the vision. Buried beneath a ruined temple in the Sable Wastes."
Lyra followed. "That's deep in Black Host territory."
"Then we go through them."
Darric sighed and stood, wincing. "Well, it's not like we were planning to retire peacefully anyway."
The trio moved into the shadows of the fallen pass. Behind them, the sky cracked with thunder. Ash drifted like snow.
As they disappeared into the dark, a figure high on the cliffside watched with eyes like polished ice. Cloaked in a tapestry of old banners and wearing no insignia, he did not speak. But when Kael passed from view, he knelt and pressed a hand to the blood-stained ground.
Symbols formed in the dirt—ancient, forgotten.
The watcher stood, and vanished with the wind.
The storm would follow.