The wind howled across the valley, carrying whispers of storms that hadn't yet formed. The land itself seemed tense, as if the world were bracing for something it couldn't name.
Lindarion stood on the ridge, cloak drawn tight around him, white hair whipping in the restless gale. Below stretched the scar of an old battlefield: blackened earth, broken weapons, the skeletal remains of war long past. Yet the mana here was new, alive, thrumming faintly with corruption.
Ashwing circled above, wings glittering faintly in the cloudlight. "He's been here," the dragon muttered. "Not the echo. Him."
Lindarion's jaw set. "I know."
He didn't need to see Dythrael to feel him anymore. The god's mana wasn't a presence, it was a pressure, a pulse that lived beneath the skin of the world. Ever since his awakening months ago, that pulse had been growing stronger, syncing with the rhythm of Lindarion's own core like two notes vibrating on the same string.
