Later that night, as celebration thundered through the Rootsite, Clayton stood on a high wall with Veyra and Torren.
Far beyond the wastelands, faint red lights glimmered on the horizon, distant constructs watching.
"He knows," Veyra murmured, bow slung across her shoulder. "Korrath knows we're coming".
Clayton's lips curled into a grim smile. "Good," he said. "Let him see the storm before it hits. Let him know there's nowhere left to hide".
Torren glanced at Clayton, Pyreaxe glowing faintly. "When we move," he said slowly, "it'll be war on a scale this world hasn't seen in decades".
Clayton's Heartseed Core thrummed in agreement, pulsing like a war drum beneath his skin. "Then we make sure we're ready," he said. "Because when this storm blooms…"
He looked toward New Chicago, eyes burning like twin emerald suns.
"…there won't be a city left to conquer".
…
Two nights after the Verdant Pact ceremony, the Rootsite hummed with a strange, restless energy.
