The wind stopped singing.
High above the mountains of Artantica, the sky turned a shade of gray that knew no name. It did not thunder, nor rain, nor split with lightning—it simply waited, thick with the weight of what was coming.
The ground trembled long before the first footfall was heard.
In the valley below, where the rivers once ran clear and the hills knew peace, a storm of bodies surged forward—dark, countless, unyielding. The Watchers were coming.
Not as guardians. Not as the noble keepers of ancient wisdom they had once been.
They came as executioners.
They moved without song or chant, without mercy in their faces or hesitation in their stride. Row upon row of armored zealots, blades polished in fire, their eyes fixed on the land above the Ice Fountain, where the families now gathered.
And with them came Morvane.
He wore no helm. His cloak trailed behind him, torn from the battle at the Fountain's fall. Blood still streaked his hands—Eryndor's, Seriane's, and a dozen others—but he bore no remorse. The darkness inside him had bloomed into something else entirely. He had lost everything and so now wanted everything lost.
Beside him walked the Seer. Silent. Ancient. Watching all.
His voice had not echoed in days, but her will was the wind behind their army. It was she who told Morvane what must be done. Eryndor still lived. The merge had not completed. And if he was not killed before his soul was fully bound to the Fountain, then the age of Watchers would be undone. The Fountain would awaken again. The curse of the werewolves would be broken, and the balance of power would return to the ancient bloodlines.
Hope would return.
And they would not allow it.
Behind the Watchers, the world itself began to cry out.
From the eastern cliffs, the beasts of wind—those whose wings had carved storms into the earth—howled at the dying skies. They sensed the power of the Fountain beginning to rise, and with it, their end. Far across the sea, titans of the deep stirred, their bodies churning the oceans, roaring not in triumph, but in dread. The Fountain's merge would banish them all—seal their essence in the roots of the world where time forgets the names of gods and monsters.
And so they came too, crawling, gliding, screaming, to tear down what little time they had left.
Above the Ice Fountain's ruins, the three ancient families stood beneath tattered banners.
Zelaira tightened the last strap of her leather guard, her eyes never leaving the descending black tide. Her arms still ached from the fight with Morvane, her magic nearly drained after saving Ariel. But she stood. She would always stand, because Seriane's death still echoed inside her, and Kaelen sacrifice was not yet done.
The elders of the families looked to one another—not for command, but for finality. No rallying cry rose. No hope was shouted from the cliffs.
They knew the truth.
This was not a battle for land, nor title, nor pride.
This was the last stand against the unraveling of time itself.
And far below, within the cold belly of the Fountain, Eryndor floated between breath and silence.
His body was fading, but his spirit had become light, pouring into the frozen walls of the ancient cave. The merge had begun. He had given himself to the cause, but the final tether had not yet broken. His heartbeat still tied him to the living. And through that thin thread, visions came to him.
He saw the first battle fought three thousand years ago, when the Watchers and werewolves stood side by side against the Consumer.
He saw Seriane's face smiling at the edge of a stream.
He saw Zelaira's tears on stone.
He saw Morvane's mother whispering in the dark, summoning her son to her cause.
He saw the future too—children dancing where blood once soaked the ground. He saw the Fountain overflowing, healing the lands, breaking the curse, and burying the evil that once ruled from shadows.
But he was not yet gone.
And the Watchers knew it.
The first horn of war was sounded at dawn.
The Watchers charged.
A roar of thousands. A sky drowned in ash and flame. They rushed with blades drawn, magic burning at their heels, and beasts above them crying ruin.
The three families met them at the ridge.
The Soe led the front—warriors with iron souls, forged in sacrifice. Their cries were not of fear but memory. The Myrelis Ariven unleashed walls of ancient fire, spells once sealed in scrolls no one dared open. The Kirenholme shattered relics into the earth, splitting the battlefield with holy fury.
But the Watchers were too many.
Their numbers swallowed the light.
The sky turned black with arrows. The ground burned with the fall of titans. Sea creatures thundered ashore, screaming against the pull of the Fountain's binding power.
Ariel, his chest still bandaged and his breath still shallow, stood once more. Blade drawn, leaning on Zelaira's shoulder, he refused to let his wounds write his ending. His voice cracked as he spoke, "Hold the line… he's not finished yet."
And in the deepest part of the Fountain, Eryndor's eyes opened once more.
The final moment had not yet come.
But it was close.
And above him, as the war raged, Morvane led the charge through the flames, through the shield wall, toward the Fountain—toward the soul he had not yet broken.
Toward the end.