The savanna, which rarely knew silence, now howled under the freezing wind descending from the mountain.
The smell of old blood, burned mana, and ash spread across the entire territory.
It was not the smell of a hunt.
It was the smell of something broken.
As if the mountain had stopped recognizing its own predators.
The Carnivorous semi-humans who had fled the destroyed camp returned dragging their tails, fur bristling and eyes wide with a fear they did not even understand.
Since when had their food become so strong.
Hunting herbivores in the savanna had always been difficult. They were fast, dangerous in groups, and capable of killing if underestimated.
But since they went to the mountain…
they no longer looked like prey.
Now they were the ones who charged without fear.
The ones who crushed predators with horns and hooves.
Jakkara, matriarch of the Hyenas of the Red Thorns, bared her fangs. Not as a smile, but as a growl broken by rage.
The night before, several of her cubs had been crushed by crystal-horned buffalo. Wolf-men covered in divine armor were torn apart under stampedes of stone rhinoceroses.
—The herbivores hunted us! —hissed a young jackal, on the edge of hysteria—. The mountain turned them into monsters!
Kael-Sur, the red-eyed baboon, struck his staff against a rock.
The sound echoed dry. Weak.
It no longer carried the authority it once had.
—The Lithaar did not respond —he growled, brows sunk—. The ground they swore to protect turned into mud. Their runes went silent.
His fingers tightened around the staff.
—They abandoned us.
Even Yhalir, leader of the Leopards, remained close to the ground.
He used to speak from above, looking down on everyone as if he had already decided who would live and who would die. Now his eyes were fixed on the mountain.
Carefully.
Suspiciously.
His people had seen things they could not explain. They had seen Douglas's darkness devour the light of the gods. They had seen human soldiers explode because of divine blessings their own gods forced them to use.
That was not strength.
That was madness.
—This is no longer the savanna —murmured Jakkara the Elder, revealing the enormous claws of his hands—. The human gods are not strong.
His eyes moved over the wounded still returning from the mountain.
—They are irresponsible.
No one responded.
Because everyone understood what it meant.
The hierarchy of the savanna had broken.
The Leontari, decimated, wandered aimlessly and voiceless.
The Golden-Horned Antelopes, who once lowered their gaze before any Carnivore, now looked at them directly. There was no fear in their eyes anymore.
There was something worse.
Defiance.
Pity.
The old fights over territory, caves, or meat seemed absurd after what had happened in the mountain.
The echo of that defeat still lingered.
It was Zarhama.
As if the mountain itself kept reminding them that they had chosen the wrong ally.
The Carnivores trusted the Lithaar's logic.
They trusted the power of the gods.
And both let them die.
Now, every shadow, every sound in the tall grass, and every night that fell over the savanna no longer meant an opportunity to hunt.
It meant fear.
And that the mountain had learned to hunt.
Not only prey.
Also truths.
The morning sun illuminated a savanna that no longer recognized its old masters.
The tunnels where the Lithaar once emerged were sealed. Black, compact stone blocked every entrance, so dense that even the stone rhinoceroses could not break it down.
The runes beneath the surface had gone silent.
Dead.
Like remnants of something that would never function again.
The Lithaar stopped coming out.
Stopped responding.
For them, the surface had become irrelevant.
The mountain changed the way of life of the continent; those who once hunted were now hunted.
In the remains of the camp, the few humans who survived —soldiers, acolytes, and even some heroes— moved carefully, like wounded animals afraid to make too much noise.
No one spoke more than necessary.
No one went alone.
Their eyes kept returning again and again to the horizon, toward the sea that separated them from their home.
As if they were waiting for a route of escape to appear at any moment.
The air in the camp was not silent.
Silence would have been less terrifying.
It was worse.
As if everyone had understood, without needing to say it, that something was about to break.
The Chosen Ones began to gather one by one.
Without emotion.
With a strange calm. Artificial.
Like people entering a ceremony that had already happened too many times.
Aurelius walked at the front.
Divine light still surrounded him, illuminating the darkness of the camp.
—Formation —he ordered.
No one responded.
They only moved.
Then they began to advance.
Voren did not walk like the others.
He dragged his feet, as if his own body refused to climb that mountain again.
As if the earth itself was trying to hold him back.
Caelum remembered the arrogance with which he had arrived on the continent, convinced the world was beneath him.
Now he looked at the mountain…
and silent tears appeared in his eyes.
Selene advanced with her hands together.
She prayed in a low voice.
—Don't hit me again… not again… not so hard…
The camp's prayers, fear, and broken faith seemed to follow them as they moved together.
Icarus did not look forward.
If he did, he felt he would turn around and run.
As if he had already seen the end.
Fight.
Be struck.
Escape again trying to save his life.
Thalessa advanced surrounded by humidity and small currents of water.
The joy she once showed had disappeared days ago.
She still remembered that direct punch to the face.
Kara had not held back.
The Heroine of Strength left her unconscious for two days.
And worse was remembering the woman's gaze while she struck.
Cold.
Empty.
As if breaking bones meant nothing.
Somewhere far away, the sea seemed to cry with her.
Balthazar held his closed book against his chest.
He did not need to open it.
The words were already written.
A testament.
I hope someone finds it.
Elias walked without looking at anyone.
His eyes were still filled with horror.
He could still see the head of that giant tiger in front of him.
The fangs.
The jaw closing inches from his body.
Kaelen smiled.
But it no longer looked like arrogance.
It looked like someone on the verge of losing his mind.
—We're going to die… —he laughed softly.
The fire on his body crackled uncontrollably.
Morgana walked behind them, unhurried.
Around her, darkness moved nervously.
And in her mind there was only one thought.
If she saw the vampire…
she would run.
She did not care if they called her a coward.
Death was better than ending up serving that monstrous vampire.
Uther, Lyra, Isolde, and Amon advanced the same way.
There was no trust, no enthusiasm, no rage. Only empty discipline, sustained by habit and divine orders. No one expected to win. Only to comply.
And finally… Berenia.
The Heroine of Darkness.
When the last of them joined, Aurelius raised his hand.
The world stopped.
—Advance —he said.
It was not a shout.
It was a sentence.
And then they walked.