The storm didn't come gently.
It came as a scream from the sky, a fury of wind and thunder that shook the broken towers of Velmora. Lightning arced through the heavens, tracing veins of white-hot fire across the storm's black heart. Soldiers stumbled from tents, weapons half-drawn, eyes wide with the confusion of sudden panic. Rain lashed the ground, thick and violent. It was not water—it was wrath.
Kellen stood in the center of the old cathedral, breathing hard, soaked from scalp to boot. The key he'd used lay in his palm, still warm from the runes it had disrupted. The collar had fallen to the stone floor with a hollow clang, like the lid of a coffin snapping shut. And now, before him, the man once called the Storm That Bled was on his feet for the first time in weeks.
The magic that clung to him was alive.
It shimmered against his skin in rivers of light—pale silver, like starlight caught in water, moving beneath his veins as though the world itself pulsed through him. His back was straight, his gaze leveled not at Kellen, but at the sky beyond the broken window. He looked more like a statue than a man, carved from forgotten myth.
"You freed me," he said.
Kellen nodded, unable to form words. His mouth was dry. His heart beat too fast.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Kellen admitted, his voice hoarse. "But I think… I believe you. About the gods. About all of it."
The man tilted his head slowly, the chains on his wrists falling away like dead snakes.
"Then you're braver than most."
Outside, shouts rose.
Steel clanged.
Kellen turned toward the cathedral's entrance—and froze.
The sky was no longer just storm-dark. It was splitting.
From the horizon, something vast and black crawled across the clouds. It wasn't made of shadow, but of void—an absence, a wound in the fabric of the world itself. It moved like smoke and claw, and where it passed, light vanished. Trees wilted. Birds fell from the sky, their wings shriveled in mid-flight.
The soldiers were forming ranks now, archers and swordsmen shouting orders.
Then came the scream.
It didn't come from above—it came from below.
From beneath Velmora.
Kellen gasped and spun toward the altar, where the runes around the old Wyrdborne's prison were now glowing violently. The stone cracked. The silver circle shattered like ice underfoot. And the air filled with the stench of rot, ancient and thick.
From the cracks rose figures.
They were human in shape, but wrong—limbs too long, mouths where eyes should be, claws like branches of burned trees. Their skin rippled like molten wax, shifting constantly. They moved with an eerie silence, as if the world held its breath to let them pass.
The Wyrdborne stepped forward.
He raised his right hand.
The wind stopped.
A moment later, the creatures lunged.
Kellen saw a blur of movement. Magic, raw and violent, cracked from the Wyrdborne's body in waves. He didn't chant. He didn't gesture with flourish. He simply moved—like he had always known this war would come.
Chains of light tore from the air around him, coiling like living blades. One swept across the first creature, severing its head in a clean arc. Another slammed into a rising shadow, pinning it to the floor where it burned with unholy fire.
But for every abomination that fell, two more rose.
Kellen drew his sword. His hands trembled, but he forced his grip tight.
The Wyrdborne turned to him. "Run."
"No."
"This isn't your fight."
"It is now."
A smile tugged at the man's lips—half surprised, half bitter.
"So be it."
Together, they fought.
Kellen's blade found purchase in soft, slippery flesh. The abominations bled darkness. It splattered against his armor, burning like acid. He gritted his teeth, screamed, slashed again. At his side, the Wyrdborne moved like lightning in human form, magic carving the world into obedience.
But they were losing.
There were too many.
Then, through the chaos, General Valen appeared.
He looked older than he had hours ago. His beard was soaked, his armor cracked. But his eyes burned with fire.
"Kellen!" he shouted. "Get away from him!"
"I'm staying!"
"You don't understand!"
"I do!" Kellen shouted back, parrying a claw. "I understand more than you ever told me!"
Valen hesitated.
The Wyrdborne turned to him, drenched in rain and blood and light.
"Still hiding behind children, Valen?"
Valen's jaw clenched. "I should have killed you ten years ago."
"You tried."
Their magic clashed like thunder.
Valen raised his sword, and the blade erupted in golden flame. The Wyrdborne blocked it with a wave of force. The cathedral exploded around them, stone splitting from ancient walls, lightning shearing down from the heavens.
Kellen screamed, "STOP!"
But neither man did.
This wasn't about the creatures anymore. This was older. Deeper. A betrayal written in scars and memories.
In the end, it was the Wyrdborne who pulled back first.
He turned—not in defeat, but in choice.
"We're out of time," he said.
He grabbed Kellen's arm.
In a blink, the world shifted.
They were no longer in Velmora.
They stood in a field of ash.