The sky had turned ashen gray, clouded with the remnants of the battle against Daihar. Wind howled through the scorched trees of Ash Hill, carrying the acrid stench of blood, fire, and the demonic creatures recently vanquished. The air was thick, as if reminding all that something unholy had just taken place here.
Karl stood in the middle of the ruins, his body coated in dust and sweat, his cloak torn to shreds by the brutal clash. Though victorious, an unshakable unease gripped him. He stared down at his hand, which held a broken shard from the old barrier — shattered when Daihar fell. A whisper echoed deep within his thoughts.
"This is only the beginning..."
Molvar and Sir Cedric could be seen in the distance, guiding the villagers down the hill, all of them pale and shaken. Some wept, others were still in disbelief that they had survived. Karl began to walk toward them, slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the dark energy had yet to fully dissipate.
