The Gate of Wounds continued to crack open—not with violence, but inevitability.
Each thread of bloodglass snapped like a harp string, sending tremors into the ley-lines that spidered beneath the continent. Far above, in forgotten corners of the world, sigils buried in temples long collapsed flickered back to life. Ghost-lanterns ignited without flame. Trees that had not borne leaves in an age suddenly rustled, as if exhaling after centuries of silence.
Even the sea stirred.
Something was changing.
Something ancient was returning.
Ashen stood before the Gate, a monolith of intent wrapped in molten quiet. Behind him, the air shimmered as his generals gathered—towering, radiant with old pain and hollow power. One bore a helm of endless night. Another had skin inscribed with the last wor
