Even as the garden whispered reunion, the realms beyond shuddered.
In the far reaches of the Ashen Vale, where light died screaming and echoes reigned supreme, a ripple of Zeirion's presence awakened things that had slumbered for far too long.
At the edge of the ruined Fortress of Dread, a figure stirred.
He had once been a king of kings. A warlord of ten thousand deaths. Now he was little more than bone wrapped in shadows, yet the moment Zeirion rose, so did his hunger.
"Althar…" the figure rasped, voice like cracking earth. "He returns… and I remember…"
Elsewhere, in the Hollow Star Courts, divine seers gathered. Pools of time turned black with prophecy. One by one, the visions came:
—A blade that silenced gods.
—A man without mercy.
—A queen of moonlight who stood beside him.
Panic spread through the heavens.
War councils reconvened.
Treaties once thought eternal began to fray.
Back in the garden, Zeirion opened his eyes.
"They will come," he said.
Aralya nodded. "I know."
"We need time."
"You'll have it."
She moved her hand, and the garden shifted. A path opened—not to escape, but to prepare.
"Then let us remind the realms," he said, his voice no longer gentle, "why they feared me."
And together, hand in hand, they stepped into the new dawn.