News of the ambush traveled fast. By the time it reached Dominion’s northern fortress, the tale had already grown: wagons burned to ash, soldiers scattered, and the lightning of a god splitting the dawn.
In the icy chamber of the Overseer, Solas sat upon a throne of black stone, frost curling from his breath. Before him, the surviving captain knelt, trembling as he relayed the failure.
“My lord… we were unprepared. The rebels—”
Solas rose slowly, the air freezing with each step. “Not rebels. Him.” His voice was low, sharp as cracking ice. “The boy lives. And now he believes himself chosen.”
The captain flinched, head bowed. “Forgive me, my lord. He struck like a storm. We could not hold—”
Solas’s hand swept outward. Frost leapt from his fingertips, encasing the man in jagged ice. The
