Three weeks had passed since the encounter with that mysterious creature.
Since then, New Drakhal had changed.
And so had I. Not as a king. That came before.
Now it was something deeper. A constant feeling that something inside me was trying to wake up. As if I had forgotten who I truly was. And every step I took, every spell I cast, every unexplained dream seemed to push me toward that answer.
That morning, the sky turned red. It wasn't magic, nor a curse — just the reflection of fire in the north. An allied village had been attacked during the night. We found only traces, burnt wood, dried blood… and corroded runes.
"Corroded."
I had never seen that happen. Runes could be broken, sealed, corrupted, even rewritten. But not consumed like that. It was as if something had devoured their magical essence.
"Rune Devourer," Orzoth called it.
