"We will meet again," he said, voice low and resolute. "At the First Descent Tournament. Don't be late."
Ian did not speak.
Only watched.
And in a breath, the man was gone.
Not vanished. Not teleported.
Erased.
The forest wept around Ian.
The trees moaned, bent and broken. The sky remained fractured above.
And in the silence that followed, Ian remained still.
Judgment hummed in his grip.
He looked toward the horizon, and for the first time in a long while, narrowed his eyes with something akin to anticipation.
———
The wind was still, but the trees were ruined.
Ian stood in the aftermath, the black blade still warm in his grip, humming softly like a wild animal sighing after a meal.
He slowly sheathed Judgement, the metal kissing the scabbard with a finality that cut deeper than most swords.
Around him, the forest bore the scars of war—trees cleaved into stumps, the ground torn open, ash and blood mingling like old lovers.
The scent of death clung to air.
