The air was heavy that night. Not from the campfires or the smoke of cooking pots, but from anticipation. Thousands of soldiers from across the continent had pitched their tents across the northern ridge, their banners snapping in the cold wind. Different tongues murmured in the dark, each campfire its own island of tension, each soldier asking the same unspoken question:
What will happen when the Hollow Titan rises?
Eryndor sat on a low stone wall near the edge of camp, watching sparks climb from a nearby brazier. His body ached from the fights that had brought him here—scars lining his forearms, faint burns across his ribs—but it was his mind that carried the greater weight. He had never seen so many armies gathered in one place.
The Crimson Halberdiers drilled even at night, their formation precise, their halberds striking the ground in unison with a sound like thunder. Across the ridge, the Skyfire Legion practiced chants, their voices rising in harmony, the flames around their hands painting their tents in shifting orange light. Overhead, the Drakebound Order's beasts circled once before vanishing into the dark, the sound of their wings like storms over the mountains.
Eryndor exhaled, sparks dancing faintly from his palm. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about war.
It came at dawn.
The ground shook, subtly at first, like the earth itself was groaning awake. Tents rattled. Spears clattered. Soldiers who had faced monsters their whole lives looked up from their rations, eyes wide.
Then came the second tremor. Stronger. The earth cracked open along the cliffs, dust billowing skyward. A roar—low, ancient, and unearthly—rolled through the plains, flattening the grass with its sheer force.
And then they saw it.
The Hollow Titan.
It rose from the earth like a mountain pulling itself free from the soil. Its body was carved of stone and marrow, its hide streaked with glowing veins of ancient light. Its eyes burned like hollow suns, empty yet searing. With each movement, boulders cascaded off its frame, crashing into the valley below.
It did not simply walk. It reshaped the land beneath it.
"Halberdiers—forward!"
"Skyfire Legion, ready flames!"
"Drakebound, circle its head!"
The battlefield erupted in movement.
The Crimson Halberdiers surged like a steel tide, spears bracing in formation as they struck at the Titan's legs. Their discipline was unshakable, but even their weapons barely scraped its stone-like flesh. Sparks flew as steel met hide, the sound like striking anvils.
Above, the Skyfire Legion unleashed a torrent of flame, great rivers of fire cascading across the Titan's torso. The beast howled, a guttural sound that cracked the air, and with a single sweep of its arm it scattered the flames, the heat rolling back toward the soldiers who cast them.
The drake riders swooped from above, their beasts screeching as they darted at the Titan's head. Their spears glowed with runes as they struck at its eyes, but the creature's roar was like a storm, knocking riders from the sky with raw force.
The Hollow Titan swung its arm, and an entire cliffside shattered. Soldiers screamed as boulders rained down, formations crumbling beneath the weight of falling stone.
Eryndor Steps In
Eryndor's fists clenched as he watched the armies struggle. His storm surged in his veins, answering the sight of chaos with hunger. He stepped forward, each stride crackling against the dirt, sparks bursting from his boots.
"Eryndor!" a commander shouted. "Hold back—we're not ready for—"
But the words drowned beneath thunder.
Eryndor launched forward, Pulse Step carrying him in a blur of lightning. He landed on the Titan's forearm as it swung, the shock nearly throwing him off. Sparks erupted from his fists as he drove them into the ancient hide. Stone cracked—barely—but cracked nonetheless.
The Titan turned its burning eyes toward him. For the first time, it noticed.
"Good," Eryndor muttered through clenched teeth. "Now look at me."
Lightning surged across his frame, Storm Veil wrapping him in a flickering cocoon. He dashed across the Titan's arm like a streak of light, fists hammering, strikes chaining into arcs of electricity that leapt from one fracture to the next.
The Titan roared, swiping at him with a hand the size of a house. Eryndor leapt, Thunder Step carrying him upward in a burst that cracked the sky. He drove his heel down into its shoulder, the impact shaking stone loose and sending shockwaves across the battlefield.
For one breath, the Titan staggered.
But the cost was steep.
Every strike rattled his bones. His arms burned, his muscles tearing beneath the strain of channeling so much raw energy. He landed back on the ground with a roll, coughing blood into the dirt, his body screaming at him to stop.
Soldiers all around him stared—some in awe, some in fear. He wasn't an army. He wasn't a formation. He was one man, fighting like a storm made flesh.
But even storms have limits.
The Titan's shadow fell over him again, its colossal foot lifting to crush everything beneath.
Eryndor's teeth gritted. His body was breaking. His storm was thinning. But still—still—he pushed forward, sparks dancing at his fingertips.
"Not yet," he whispered, voice hoarse but steady. "Not until you fall."