The first true light of dawn had not yet kissed the Southern sky, yet the world trembled beneath the weight of awakening forces. In the aftermath of the vault's collapse and the unsealing of the ancient cocoon, Ryon stood atop a shattered outcrop of blackened stone, the breeze pulling at the edges of his tattered cloak. His hand still burned with the sigil—the snowflake encased in flame—a mark not just of power, but of convergence. The world had tilted. Something fundamental had changed.
The wind that swept down from the high ridges was no longer just cold—it carried the whispers of things lost and things reborn. Ryon closed his eyes and listened. Beneath the rush of wind, the grinding stone of distant plateaus, and the eerie silence of the forests, he heard it: echoes of memories not his own, fragments of forgotten vows, shattered oaths, and voices pleading for salvation or vengeance. This was no longer just a land of the South. It was now a crucible, and he stood at its center.
