Far beyond the dungeon's walls, beyond the verdant sprawl of the ancient forest and the high cliffs that kissed the storm-forged skies, a different kind of storm was brewing — one not of lightning, but of legions and intent.
The Eastern Empire of Varkhaz, once fractured by civil unrest and regional rebellions, had found sudden, unnerving unity under a single banner: a black sun wreathed in crimson fire. The sigil had not flown for a century — not since the last Emperor's downfall in the Crimson Purge. Now, it adorned every outpost, every war camp, and every iron-plated war machine rolling across the eastern plains.
Atop a marble balcony overlooking the capital city of Vaaryaneth, a figure stood unmoving. Tall, draped in ceremonial black-and-silver robes that shimmered like forged dusk, the High Strategos Ireth Maorn observed the endless ranks below. Soldiers drilled in silence, blades flashing with military precision, discipline etched into their bones.
Behind him, flames crackled in a brazier shaped like a dragon's maw, and the air shimmered faintly — magic lingered here, thick and volatile.
A younger officer approached, bowing sharply. "The expedition has confirmed it. The Sigil fragments have reawakened… in the west."
Maorn's voice was cold, deliberate. "And the boy?"
"Still alive. The Thunderheart survived the Revenant's chamber."
A long silence.
Ireth Maorn turned, eyes gleaming like molten silver beneath his helm. "Then the Prophecy is in motion."
He strode to a stone table at the center of the chamber — an ancient map carved with ley-lines and fault veins of the world's arcane structure. His hand hovered above a swirling representation of Indra's location, glowing faintly where the Sigil's power had pulsed.
"The storm-bound child… he is gathering strength faster than expected," Maorn mused, almost admiringly. "But chaos… is a ladder. And ladders are meant to be kicked out from under fools."
Another voice spoke from the shadows. This one older, rasping, with a poisonous calm. "Then we send the Hounds."
From the dark emerged a man with skin etched in sacrificial runes, his eyes glassy and empty — a Blood Priest of the Forgotten Cult. He bowed his head low before Maorn.
"The eastern clans will obey the call of fire and shadow," the priest hissed. "Let the beast awaken. Let the storm bleed."
Maorn nodded once.
"Mobilize the eastern vanguard. Prepare the Voidbinders. Send emissaries to the southern conclaves — buy their silence or bury their seers. The world will turn toward the empire again."
As the officer departed, Maorn returned to the balcony.
In the distance, thunder cracked — faint and unnatural — not from the skies, but from beneath the ground.
"The Gauntlet awakens," he murmured. "The boy thinks the storm is his ally."
His fingers tightened against the stone. "Let's show him how deep the Empire's silence runs."
⸻
Far across the land, Indra paused mid-step in the dungeon, a sudden cold shiver trailing down his spine. Something ancient stirred. Something that had begun to watch.
Kaelari noticed his hesitation. "What is it?"
Indra looked eastward, toward a direction no sun yet touched.
"…The winds are shifting," he whispered.
"The world just took a breath."