Smoke still hung over the northern plains, a black veil across the sky. The stench of scorched earth and molten stone clung to every breath. Soldiers limped among the ruins, dragging comrades from rubble, dousing fires with whatever water they could find.
Eryndor remained unconscious, resting beneath Lyanna's watchful eyes. Her hands never left him, not even when her father returned from the battlefield, armor cracked, sword sheathed across his back. Varian placed one heavy hand on her shoulder and gave the faintest nod — not as a general, but as a father.
"He'll wake," Varian said. "Storms don't die. They only gather."
Lyanna pressed her lips together, relief flickering in her eyes.
But even as families reunited and soldiers cheered Pyrrhagon's death, messengers arrived. Cloaked riders bearing banners of gold, crimson, azure, and obsidian thundered across the blackened field. Their arrival stilled the camp — because everyone knew what those colors meant.
The Council had come.
Six figures dismounted. Each bore the weight of their nations, each radiated the power of legends.
High Marshal Serik Vaelor of the Dawn Empire, clad in golden armor that shone even through ash. His mere stance was discipline forged into flesh. Grand Strategist Murasaki Han of the Jade Provinces, a slender woman in layered robes, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. She carried no weapon — because her mind was her arsenal. Archon Thalbrecht Krane of the Iron Dominion, a man broad as a fortress, a colossal warhammer strapped across his back. His aura felt like an unbroken wall. General Cassia Veyra of the Southern Wastes, skin marked with glowing runes, her presence crackling with wild elemental affinity. Commander Rykos Khaal of the Blackstep Tribes, wolf-pelt cloak flowing, eyes glowing faintly with primal fury. And last, the Speaker of the Council, Eldrin Malakar, robed in black and silver, his cane tipped with crystal. An old man, frail in appearance, but the quiet in his gaze carried the weight of centuries.
The battlefield bowed without command.
Varian stepped forward to greet them, his blade still resting at his hip. The Lion of Deynar did not bow — but he inclined his head with respect.
"Councilors."
Eldrin Malakar's voice was soft, yet it carried as though the wind itself obeyed him.
"What you faced here — the Infernal Behemoth, the Umbral Colossus — are not accidents of nature. They are echoes. Fragments of an older age, when the world was not ours."
He lifted his staff, and in the fractured sky, illusions shimmered: visions of titans striding across seas, creatures that devoured suns, beasts that wove storms with their breath.
"They are known to us as Primordial-Class Monsters. Beings born from the first chaos when this world took form. They sleep for centuries, sometimes millennia, but when the balance of the world shifts — they stir."
Gasps rippled among the soldiers. Some crossed themselves, others shivered openly.
Murasaki Han spoke next, her voice precise.
"They are categorized into three levels:
Continental-Class — like the Umbral Colossus, capable of reshaping regions, toppling nations. World-Class — like Pyrrhagon, whose power threatens the very stability of the planet. And beyond… the forbidden tier: Calamity-Class. Their existence alone defies nature. One such being is said to slumber beneath the western seas, its stirring tides felt across every coast."
The illusions shifted again, showing silhouettes that dwarfed mountains, whose presence warped reality itself.
"Every sighting is not just a battle," Eldrin continued. "It is history repeating. A reminder that mankind is a tenant in a world that never fully belonged to us."
Varian's hand tightened on his sword. "Then why gather here now? To frighten us with old tales?"
Eldrin met his gaze, unflinching.
"Because Pyrrhagon was not alone. Its awakening was a herald. Across the continents, the other Primordials stir. And if they rise together…"
His voice trailed off, letting silence say the rest.
As the Council spoke, Kael glanced back at Eryndor, still pale, still unmoving.
"He's part of this, isn't he?" Kael muttered under his breath. "The storm kid. He's going to end up standing against them all."
Varian, overhearing, said nothing. But his eyes softened as he looked at his unconscious son-in-law. Pride, fear, and inevitability warred quietly in his chest.
For now, Eryndor slept, his storm silent. But the world around him was shifting into a war greater than any single battle.
The Council had arrived not just to speak — but to decide who among them would stand when the Calamities rose.
And Eryndor's name was already on their lips.