Deep within the caverns, far from the valley's dawn, Marlic crouched among the ruins of his storm. Smoke bled weakly from his spear, his ember eyes dimmed but not extinguished. The Ironbound's chain‑blade had scarred him, daylight had frayed his shadow—but grief does not die.
He whispered to the fractured champions who remained. "Do not mourn weakness. Grief feeds on wounds. Every scar is fuel. Every betrayal is strength."
The shadows stirred, faint at first, then thickening. Marlic pressed his hand into the stone floor, and the cavern itself seemed to bleed smoke. He was binding new power—not from flame, not from night, but from memory itself.
Visions flickered in the smoke: faces of the fallen, torches extinguished, cries of despair. Marlic drank them in, his laughter low and cruel. "The Ashbound think dawn protects them. The Emberkin think smoke redeems them. But grief is endless. I will weave every loss into my storm."
His champions bowed, their forms reshaping, stronger than before. The cavern pulsed with shadow, a heartbeat of betrayal.
Marlic rose, his spear glowing faintly, smoke curling tighter. "Let them train. Let them believe. When night returns, I will not bring the same storm. I will bring grief reborn."
The cavern walls trembled, as if the stone itself feared him. Outside, the valley lay silent, the Ashbound waiting for a storm that never came. But in the depths, Marlic was rebuilding—patient, hidden, and more dangerous than ever.