Far from the chaos of the frontlines, in the mountain-cradled city of Velmora, smoke coiled from the chimneys of forge-temples and the air shimmered with ancient magic.
Deep within the anvil chambers of the Dwarven Citadel, flames danced not just with fire, but with memory.
A hulking dwarf with grey braids and arms scarred by centuries of forging stood before a war-hammer glowing faintly with celestial light. His name was Thorin Stonepyre, High Artisan of the Old Flame, and the last living keeper of the Pact of the Hollow Sun.
"The veil is broken…" he muttered, as molten iron twisted unnaturally in its basin. "So the fire must rise again."
Meanwhile, in the southern elven woods of Nalae'thir, a convocation stirred.
Beneath a tree older than most kingdoms, Queen Sirael of the High Elves watched the skies with cold eyes. The stars had shifted—their song distorted.
"Dragons stirring, ancient enemies rising... The Karmic one walks again," she whispered.
Her attendants murmured nervously. Sirael raised a hand, silencing them.
"Gather the Moonbinders. The Cycle is no longer a tale. It has begun anew."
Back at the fractured front, Auren stood amidst the aftermath.
Ash rained from the sky like cursed snow. Fires burned from where the Dragon of the Abyss had descended. Many had died, and more yet would fall.
Auren knelt beside the fallen—his hands clutching the torn banner of the Hollow Sun. Not in mourning, but in quiet promise.
"Their deaths won't be in vain. I will cleanse what the gods themselves failed to purge."
Lyra approached, her hand briefly resting on his shoulder.
"This is bigger than we imagined, Auren. The dragon's arrival… It means the ancient treaties are void."
He nodded grimly. "Then it's time to make new ones."
Beyond the battlefield, in a darkened sanctuary wrapped in eldritch wards, Morgrath stood before a blackened shrine.
He stared into a mirror of voidsteel, watching images flicker—Auren standing tall amidst ruin, the Hollow Sun mustering strength again, and distant lands stirring.
"The world moves… as it always does. But this time, it will break."
A voice whispered from the darkness—a feminine voice, old and inhuman.
"The dragons have seen the blood in the stars… Do you think they will follow you willingly?"
Morgrath grinned behind his helm. "They will follow death. And I am its prophet."
Far above them all, beyond the shroud of clouds and starlight, a single eye opened in the heavens—one not seen since the First War.
The Eye of Balance—the divine seal—now cracked.
And somewhere across the seas, a prison of gods stirred.
"Beneath the ash of fallen empires, the embers of reckoning still glow—waiting for wind, or war, to stir them into flame."
~ Sky Dragomir