The cold wind whispered through the ruins like a ghost, curling around broken spires and collapsed towers. Darian stood at the center of the forgotten citadel—once a thriving city of stone and magic, now a silent graveyard buried beneath the ash of its own history. The iron sky above him throbbed with a strange, static tension, as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
He could feel it—power. Old, buried, and angry. Something ancient stirred beneath the surface, something that had long been asleep. His gauntlet, forged from the shards of Volkar's core, pulsed on his hand like a second heartbeat.
Behind him, Thalia approached quietly. Her hood was down, silver hair fluttering in the wind. "This place shouldn't exist."
