In that instant, the two men froze.
The sound came from behind them, carried through the haze.
It was unfamiliar yet too composed to belong to a dying man.
Bennet turned, every muscle tensing.
Kieran's blade was half-drawn, his eyes searching the smoke.
"You buried my men," the voice continued, calm and deliberate, "You buried their screams beneath your clever traps. And now you think to crawl out of their graves?"
A shape emerged through the mist—tall, unbroken, wrapped in the tattered remnants of a commander's cloak.
His armor was scorched, but his movements were steady, eyes glinting with unnatural light.
"Eryndor," Kieran whispered, disbelief and dread lacing his tone.
The man smiled—a slow, cruel curve of his lips, "Did you really think you could escape oh so easily?"
His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of authority that made the air itself still.
Kieran let out a thin breath, blade steady.
"Well," he said dryly, "I don't see myself in a prison—or dead."
