The ground trembled with each step the dark figures took.
Darian stood at the edge of the crater, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the dozen or so beings now encircling the monolith. They didn't march like soldiers nor shamble like the undead. They moved with eerie grace, like shadows given form—tall, cloaked, and silent, their faces obscured beneath black hoods, crimson sigils glowing upon their hands.
Sareth took a step closer, raising her staff.
"They're not alive," she whispered, "but they're not dead either."
Kaelin frowned. "What in all the hells are they?"
A deep, resonant voice answered—not from any of the cloaked figures, but from the monolith itself.
"They are the Heralds… and I have awakened."
The voice seemed to vibrate through the earth, through their bones, through the air itself. Darian braced himself, the weight of that presence crashing over him like a tidal wave. It was ancient, vast—cosmic. Not just a king, not just a god.
