The night was long.Though the victory fires still burned, their warmth no longer reached the hearts of Mistshroud's disciples. Whispers spread through the camp like a contagion—rumors of a shadow lord, of Adrian's wound, of a war greater than any of them had dared to imagine.
Elder Laen's face was a stone mask, but his talismans fluttered restlessly around him, their wards dimming and flaring as if reacting to the lingering taint in the air.
Adrian sat apart, arm wrapped in linen that already smoked with faint black threads. The corruption pulsed under his skin like a second heartbeat, every throb daring him to falter.
Storm pressed close, low growls rumbling from deep in his chest. Each crackle of lightning along his fur seemed to burn the mist itself, as though the beast wanted to tear the infection out of his master by force.
