The moon hung blood-red above the Vale of Mournroots, its eerie light painting the scorched earth in shades of sorrow. Here, the air itself bore the weight of remembrance—each gust carrying whispers from battles long lost and oaths long broken. Trees grew crooked and silent, their twisted forms feeding off forgotten grief. And atop a jagged ridge, Zeirion Althar stood like a statue carved from the will of gods.
The Sovereign did not move.
He listened.
Below, encamped within the bones of an ancient colossus, his enemies gathered—remnants of the Stormborn Sect, mercenaries from the Hollow Courts, and the newly revealed Flamebound Disciples. A final alliance forged not by unity but desperation.
"They believe they've trapped us," Aralya said, approaching softly. She wore armor traced with lunar sigils, forged in the Dreamforges of Seluun.
Zeirion gave no reply.
"They burn our banners in their fires," she added. "And they offer prayers to silence itself."
Finally, he turned to her.
"They offer prayers because they've run out of gods."
Aralya smiled, cold and luminous. "Then it is time?"
"No," he said. "Not yet. Let them hear what they've forgotten."
With a wave of his hand, the ridge beneath them parted, revealing a long-sealed relic—an obelisk inscribed with forbidden names, bathed in quiet blue fire. From it poured echoes of Zeirion's true legacy—not the myth, but the marrow of his conquest.
A voice rose—his own voice, from another era.
"When I speak, realms listen. When I move, stars realign. I do not lead by fear, but by the certainty that none may stand against me and live."
The camp below stirred. Lights flickered. Magic warped.
And across the heavens, the veil began to tear.
The war to end all shadows had begun.