Years passed like seasons, and the people of Dregaria saw their children live longer, laugh more.
Schools replaced gallows. Guild halls bloomed like temples. Cities once shrouded in smoke now pulsed with light.
In his aging years, Velkarth stood alone in his sanctum, journal in hand. On a wall once adorned with war banners now hung sketches of schools, maps of canals, quotes from the Navaleon Reforms.
He dipped his pen into ink, his fingers trembling.
"He rules with the forge that shapes a future. And I—"
He paused.
"—have at last begun to melt my chains."
He never met Sharath. Never dared reach out.
But somewhere, in the wind-swept echoes of the Aetherion Riders that sometimes crossed the border, he heard the boy's vision roaring across the land.
And yet...
Far away, in the corners of the world not yet illuminated, eyes burned not with envy — but hatred.
And the storms to come would test whether iron could withstand fire.