Aric dreamt of flames.
The village burned around him. The King's Fang split in two, and from its core rose a crown made of jagged light, each shard dripping with blood.
He woke to screams.
Rushing outside, Aric saw torches blazing in the fields. Dark figures moved through the wheat, cutting down villagers with cruel efficiency. Goblins.
Windmere had known raids before, but never so many, never so organized. The leader was taller than the rest, armored in black iron, wielding a curved blade that shimmered unnaturally. His gaze locked on Aric as though he had been hunting him alone.
Mira pulled him toward the mill. "We have to hide!"
But Aric's eyes strayed to the hill, where the Fang pulsed faintly with light, as though answering the chaos below.
And somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered his name.