The sun barely pierced the ashen clouds overhead.
A pale, washed-out light draped itself over the ruined world, casting long, skeletal shadows across the jagged landscape. It was neither true day nor true night—just a weary in-between, as if even time itself hesitated here.
Argolaith walked alone.
The temple where they had parted was long behind him, swallowed by the broken ridgelines and the heavy mist that curled like restless spirits through the valleys.
Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, but from the knowledge of what he had left behind.
Kaelred's trembling voice.
Malakar's silent, burning stare.
Thae'Zirak's ancient blessing, given without condition.
Argolaith shook his head sharply, pushing the thoughts aside.
He couldn't afford hesitation.
The dream had shown him a direction—north, toward the place where Morgoth's influence frayed and the world began to rot into something older and more cruel.
