The sound of the drums was no longer just noise—it was the beat of war. Each beat seemed to scratch the soul, reverberating in the roots of the forest and in the bones of those who dared to listen. The massacre behind Kael had already become a voiceless graveyard: hundreds of twisted bodies lay on the ground, the earth turned to red mud, the air saturated with the putrid stench of blood and entrails.
But the call was ahead.
Kael advanced with steady steps, his golden sword resting on his shoulder. His body bore cuts and scratches, but nothing that diminished his posture. The blood of his enemies ran in trails down his skin, dripped from his chin, impregnated his armor — and yet his eyes shone cold, unbreakable. The golden aura that surrounded him flickered like indomitable embers, oscillating between light and living flame.
"So this is it..." he murmured, as if speaking to the gods themselves. "You want to welcome me."
