The battlefield had never been so silent.
Not during the clashes of thousands of wolves.
Not during the rise of the ancient throne.
Not even when the Guardian knelt.
But now… silence pressed against every warrior's chest like a tightening fist.
Because the man standing before Elara carried something far more dangerous than armies.
Truth.
Draven's wolf snarled low in his throat, the sound vibrating like distant thunder across the shattered valley.
The stranger barely glanced at him.
His crimson eyes remained locked on Elara.
Cold.
Familiar.
Patient.
"You look confused," he said calmly.
Elara forced herself not to step back.
Every instinct screamed that this being was older than anything she had ever faced.
Older even than the Guardian kneeling behind her.
But she refused to show fear.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The stranger smiled faintly.
"That question," he murmured, "is exactly why I came."
He slowly spread his arms, as if welcoming the chaos around them.
