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The fire crackled low in the heart of the forest cave as Liyana traced glowing symbols into the stone floor. Her voice was low, rhythmic—a chant that danced with the shadows. Nkosana sat nearby, arms folded, eyes alert. Though he trusted her, each vision she summoned seemed to scrape deeper at the edge of his sanity.
The flames suddenly rose, roaring unnaturally high.
Liyana gasped, her body jerking as her pupils rolled white. "The veil has thinned," she rasped. "The Demon King stirs. And your blood... your blood is the key."
Nkosana clenched his fists. "I'm done being someone's key."
"The world doesn't care what you're done with," she whispered. "It moves with or without you. But if you don't stand, all will burn."
The vision passed, and Liyana slumped, weak.
Before Nkosana could speak, a horn echoed in the distance—deep and ominous.
He rushed outside.
On the ridgeline, dozens of cloaked figures appeared. Shadow Wielders, Nightblades, and once-banished exiles. Some had come for war. Others… for hope.
Nkosana's mark pulsed.
He wasn't alone anymore—but neither was the darkness.
The final act had begun.
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