Far beyond the ruined stronghold, across black rivers and haunted forests, the beacon's light pierced more than just clouds. It reached forgotten halls, reclusive enclaves, and sleeping beasts.
It called—not just to men.
But to monsters. And gods.
✦ High in the Stormreach Mountains
The Council of the Crimson Scale
A vast amphitheater carved into the bones of a slain mountain dragon trembled as ancient drakes stirred from their perches. Above, a crimson-scaled wyrm, aged and wise, opened his eyes.
Vorthaz, the Wyrm Eternal, watched the beacon flame surge across the sky like a divine spear.
"So," he growled, smoke curling from his nostrils, "the Knight's fire returns…"
"Should we prepare for war, Father?" asked a younger dragon, his wings twitching with unease.
"No. Not war.""Destiny."
Far beneath their wings, lesser dragons and dragonkin gathered, sensing the pulse in their blood—the ancestral bond awakening. A call as old as the heavens themselves.
✦ In the Moonshade Vale
The Elven Divide
Moonlight filtered through towering silverwoods as two opposing elven hosts stood at the edge of civil war—High Elves and Black Elves, blades half-drawn, tensions near bloodshed.
Then, in the sky—the flare.
A single priestess stepped forward. Cloaked in white, her half-blooded eyes glowed with silent understanding.
"The Karmic Flame…" she whispered.
"Impossible," sneered a High Lord. "The Knight is a relic."
"Then why does the Flame burn?" she snapped, pointing at the sky. "The world stirs because he does."
The armies hesitated. The clash paused. And the first seed of unity was planted—by fear… or by faith.
✦ Beneath the Cradleforge
The Dwarven Awakening
Molten rivers glowed in the ancient city-forge of Thar'Dum. The artisans had felt the change before even the humans had seen it. Stone whispered. Fire danced.
"The old forges just… roared," muttered a black-bearded smith.
At the core of it all, the Elder Artisan, a dwarf nearly as old as the mountains themselves, nodded slowly.
"He bears the Flame again."
"The Knight?"
"Aye. And if he calls… then steel must answer."
Hammers were raised. Oaths, once buried beneath soot and pride, rang anew.
✦ Back at the Hollow Fortress
Auren stood by the fractured altar, watching as flames still danced skyward. His face was stoic, yet troubled.
The demon mark haunted him.
"That creature… it shouldn't have breached the veil," he muttered.
"Then the veil's broken," Lyra answered, her voice tight. "Or someone has pierced it. From the other side."
She touched the edge of the rift, now cold and cracked, like shattered glass frozen in place.
"If demons can cross now… what else waits in the Abyss?"
Auren said nothing.
But his grip on his sword tightened.
Suddenly, a low horn echoed from the horizon.
Not demonic. Not enemy.
An arrival.
Dozens of armored figures emerged over the hill crest—riders, warriors, and pilgrims bearing tattered cloaks stitched with a single golden insignia:
The Hollow Sun.
Some bore swords, some relics, others scars. One limped. One walked with a cane. All bore the same eyes.
Eyes that had seen justice turned to ash.
One stepped forward—a woman with half a face burned, and armor reforged many times over.
"Commander Auren Dragos," she said, voice hoarse. "We were told you died. Or rose."
Auren stepped forward, blade still at his side.
"I did both."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now," he said, loud enough for all to hear, "we restore what was broken. We gather the Hollow Sun—not as a weapon... but as judgment."
He raised his blade once more, and this time, dozens of weapons were lifted with him.
The Hollow Sun had returned.
"And from the fire, they came—not because they were told, but because their souls still burned." — Reunion Oath, Hollow Sun Codex