The wind howled over the plains of Elandor, carrying with it the smell of smoke and blood.
From the black spires of the Citadel of Thorns, Malrik watched the horizon. One by one, pillars of fire rose where villages once stood. Each flame was a message, a warning carved in smoke: Defy me, and you burn.
But the fires did not ease the storm inside him. They fanned it.
---
The King’s Wrath
Malrik sat upon his throne of obsidian, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His armor gleamed black as pitch, the crown jagged upon his brow like a snarl of iron thorns.
Before him, courtiers trembled.
“Greymoor fell,” Malrik snarled. “My own knight gutted like a hog, his blood soaking rebel soil. And still these whispers spread—this ‘Stag,’ this phantom prince. Do they not know who I am?”
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