The others gathered, bruised, bloodied, but alive. Darius leaned heavily on his hammer, his chest armor dented and blackened. Lyra bound a bleeding gash on her arm, her expression calm but her hands trembling faintly. Kaelen's lips were pale, yet his eyes burned with the determination of a man who had survived against gods.
For a moment, silence.
And then—the air shifted
A wave of heat washed across the battlefield. It wasn't the warm kiss of sun after storm—it was oppressive, suffocating, like stepping into a forge with no exit. The steam rising from the ground turned to firelit haze.
From the broken horizon, a figure approached. Step by step, he emerged from the veil of smoke. His body was encased in crimson-black armor, etched with molten veins that pulsed like rivers of lava. His cape was no fabric at all but living flame, flowing and writhing behind him as though eager to consume.
