The rods faded into blood-mist.
Ashvaleth was gone.
The trees leaned closer now, as though the forest had grown intent on hearing what came next.
Even the wind had stilled, held in suspense.
Ian's eyes narrowed on the red-cloaked stranger.
"You've made a mistake...and pissed me off," he said, voice low.
The man tilted his head. That same calm. That maddening, measured calm.
"No," the stranger replied, voice like silk drawn over razors. "I've been… summoned."
His boots crunched over the grass as he walked slowly around the corpses of his former companions—unbothered, almost reverent.
"You've drawn attention. From eyes that do not blink. From those who watch beneath the world."
He stopped, fingers brushing against a blood-slicked tree trunk. "We wondered… what sort of creature takes root in rot? What kind of man dances with death and teaches it new steps?"
His gaze flicked to Ian.
