The night bled silver across the dunes. Wind carried with it the scent of burnt cedar and old magic, the kind that hummed low and restless beneath the soil. The southern sky was a bruised palette of red and indigo, where clouds rolled like living things — not of water or air, but of will. They watched, they pulsed, and deep within their throes, something ancient began to stir.
Ryon stood alone atop the ridge overlooking the encampment. His cloak fluttered like a torn banner, blackened by ash and sweat. Below him, the army that once trembled at his name now lay in a reverent silence — neither asleep nor awake, but waiting. The Warlock of the South had changed since the last battle; his eyes no longer glowed merely with power, but with purpose, and that purpose was born from something far older than vengeance.
He no longer needed the moon to guide his way. The shadows bent willingly to his call.
