Far from the Ashen Expanse, beneath a sky veiled in perpetual twilight, stood the Obsidian Citadel—a towering fortress of blackened stone and whispering winds. No birds circled it. No light touched its highest spire. And within that darkness sat a throne—jagged, cold, and alive.
Upon it rested a figure cloaked in shadow.
He wore a half-mask of carved bone, covering only the right side of his face. His left eye glowed with a faint violet hue, unnatural and unblinking. Around him, dozens of hooded acolytes knelt in silence, unmoving—like statues carved from fear.
The figure raised a finger.
A scrying mirror flickered to life before him, showing Alan—standing in the field of ash, sheathing his blade.
"So," the figure murmured. His voice was calm, melodic even, but beneath it simmered a strange rhythm, like a heartbeat that wasn't human. "He's crossed the threshold."
The shadows behind the throne trembled.
Acolytes hissed in unison: "The Bloodstorm… evolves…"
"Not quite," the figure said, leaning forward. "He still clings to ideals. Still plays the hero. But that will change soon."
One of the acolytes raised their head, trembling. "Shall… we intervene?"
"No. Let him rise." The figure stood. His presence warped the air, as if gravity bent to his will. "Let him feel strong. Let him gather allies. Let him believe."
He turned away from the mirror.
"Because when he's finally complete… I will take everything from him."
With a snap of his fingers, the room darkened further. The scrying mirror shattered. And the shadows slithered along the floor like snakes, racing toward the edges of the continent.
*****
Meanwhile…
Alan stood at the edge of the Expanse, staring at the sky.
He felt it.
A cold gaze.
A whisper in the wind.
He turned, but nothing was there.
Seris approached, clutching an old relic the General had left behind—a broken compass, its needle spinning.
"It's pointing west," she said quietly.
Alan nodded. "The capital."
"The Obsidian Citadel?"
"Yes. And whatever's waiting for us there… it's already watching."
He tightened his grip on his katana.
"No more hiding."
Kraevok's eyes glowed. "Then we begin the march."
Alan looked once more at the sword he had planted in the ground—the General's last memory. He placed a hand on the hilt in silent thanks.
Then turned his back to the past.
And began walking toward the throne that dared to claim dominion over destiny.