Far to the east, beyond the Empire's borders, in the crumbling ruins of the Temple of Silence, a boy knelt in meditation.
The wind shifted.
His eyes snapped open — irises glowing violet-gold.
He smiled.
"He lives."
The monks around him gasped. For the first time in 700 years, the Seer of the End had spoken.
He repeated it:
"Vaeren Tenebris lives."
—
Elsewhere, deep in the frozen continent of Vastramyr, an ancient creature clawed its way from beneath the ice. Eyes like twin galaxies. Its breath turned glaciers to steam.
It looked toward the Wastes and howled — not in hunger, but in memory.
Meanwhile…
Vaeren stood atop a cliff, watching the horizon burn with the arrival of the Imperial fleet. A floating war citadel hovered above them — mana cannons charged, holy symbols glowing like suns.
"They send gods to kill me," he muttered. "Again."
One of the cannons fired. A golden beam carved through the air toward him.
He didn't move.
He didn't need to.
The beam stopped mid-flight — suspended — then twisted backward like a serpent and consumed the cannon that birthed it. The skyship exploded in silence.
He whispered one word.
"Amateurs."
The storm returned.