The effect was immediate and unsettling. The fighting simply... stopped. The relentless wildermen, the fierce hobgoblins, every single enemy who had been so intent on their slaughter moments before, dropped to their knees as one. Their weapons fell from slack fingers as they pressed their foreheads to the blood-soaked earth in perfect unison. The display of absolute reverence sent chills down the spines of Hugo's soldiers.

The silence that followed was deafening. Where moments before there had been the clash of steel, war cries, and the screams of the dying, now there was only the sound of thousands of bodies shifting to their knees, followed by an eerie stillness. The sudden transition from chaos to complete stillness was more terrifying than the battle itself.

Hugo's warriors remained standing, weapons still raised, but they too were affected by the horn blast. Many trembled, their faces pale, as if their bodies recognized something their minds couldn't comprehend. Even the most hardened veterans among them felt a primal urge to kneel, to show submission to whatever power could command such absolute obedience from their savage foes.

Hugo snapped out of his momentary shock, his mind seizing the unexpected opportunity. "Why are you just standing there, you b*stards?!" His voice cracked like a whip across the unnaturally still battlefield. "Get back now! Move! Move! We retreat!"

His soldiers jolted from their stunned state, the commanding voice of their captain breaking through their fear-induced paralysis. The organized withdrawal they had struggled with moments ago suddenly became possible as their enemies remained frozen in their reverent poses, foreheads still pressed to the earth.

Units began falling back with renewed urgency but maintained their discipline, understanding that disorder now could still prove fatal. Wounded were quickly gathered, supported between comrades as they withdrew.

No one dared speak above a whisper as they retreated, as if louder sounds might break whatever spell held their enemies in thrall. Every soldier cast nervous glances at the kneeling savages, expecting them to surge up and resume their attack at any moment. The tension was thick enough to cut with a blade as they withdrew, step by careful step, from what had nearly become their grave.

Yet even as they seized this chance at survival, a new kind of dread settled over them. Whatever could command such absolute obedience from these savage hordes was something far more terrifying than the enemies they'd just escaped.

----------------------------------------

Elysian’s eyes cracked open, vision swimming in a blur of shadow and faint light. The throbbing in his skull hit immediately, sharp and splitting, like an axe lodged in his head. He groaned and instinctively raised his right hand to clutch at his temple.

‘What the hell happened?’

Memory wavered, disjointed and hazy, like trying to grasp smoke. The ache dulled to a pounding rhythm as his eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. The world wasn’t quite dark—muted light filtered in, soft and gray, hinting at dawn. He blinked, realizing the ceiling above him soared impossibly high, vanishing into the gloom.

A room. Massive, cavernous, the scale of it staggering.

Elysian’s breath stops. The chamber dwarfed any he’d ever seen—ten times the size of his own, at least—and his family estate wasn’t modest. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly, and even the ceiling loomed taller than any trees of Ironspire. Cold air brushed his skin, carrying the faint, damp scent of stone and greenery.

“Am I dreaming?” The words came out hoarse, his voice unfamiliar even to himself. As the headache persisted, stabbing and unrelenting, he realized this wasn’t a dream.

The memories came in flashes now. The Night Howler. The blood. The sickening crunch as teeth tore through flesh, the searing pain of his arm—his leg—gone.

Panic snapped through him as his eyes darted to his right arm. His hand trembled as he brought his left fingers to it, brushing over skin and bone, solid and warm. His breath shuddered. He flexed his fingers—again. And again.

“This… can’t be…” Elysian pushed himself upright, the movement sluggish, his muscles protesting. The bed beneath him wasn’t fabric or feather but a massive slab of stone softened by thick layers of leaves. Around him, the room’s enormity only deepened the wrongness. Furniture loomed like monuments—chairs, cabinets, and tables carved of stone, their size designed for giants.

Then it hit him, sharp and clear. The figures at the edge of his fading consciousness. A towering figure wielding a wooden club as thick as a tree trunk, and beside it, a woman—a predator, sleek and watchful, her shadow trailing like a second skin.

‘F*ck, no… no, it wasn’t a dream.’

Elysian stared at his arm again, his chest tightening as cold realization gripped him. The impossible dimensions of the room. The pain that still lingered, raw and biting.

‘It happened. It really happened. It wasn't just my imagination.’

The air felt heavier now, the silence suffocating. Somewhere beyond the walls, something moved—low, deliberate, and close enough to send a chill racing down his spine.

Just as he’d recalled on that fateful night—only now, with the clarity of steady light and the dreadful luxury of time—Elysian could truly absorb the grotesque, towering figure before him.

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The behemoth was an abomination of flesh and strength, a living monument to raw power warped by its own enormity. Its mottled blue-gray skin looked stretched to the brink of splitting, taut over muscles that swelled and shifted with an unnatural rhythm. Thick cords of sinew bulged grotesquely, their movements smooth and unnervingly fluid for something so massive. The thing exuded an aura of terrible vitality, its very presence seeming to press the air out of the room.

Its arms hung almost to the ground, gnarled and as thick as the trunks of trees, every line of muscle speaking to a crushing, brute strength. The hands at the end of those limbs were monstrous, each finger thicker than a man’s wrist, capable of pulverizing bone with a mere twitch. The creature’s head was both primal and horrifying, a nightmare carved in flesh.

Its face bore a heavy brow ridge, shadowing eyes like chips of polished obsidian—dark, gleaming, and cold. Those eyes carried an eerie intelligence, sharp and calculating, a predator’s mind lurking behind the beast’s primal appearance. Its nose was broad and flattened, its features rough-hewn like unfinished stone. But the mouth—jagged, wide, and bristling with uneven, yellowed teeth—was the most horrifying feature of all. It looked crafted for tearing, its maw a ruin of broken edges and raw hunger.

‘F*ck! What the hell is that thing?!’

The words screamed through his mind as Elysian froze, his body paralyzed with shock. His breath came shallow and rapid, chest tight with the kind of fear that stole all sense of reason. His mouth hung open, but no sound escaped. The stone bed beneath him felt more like an anchor than refuge, making even the smallest attempt to back away an awkward, futile motion.

Then Elysian saw her.

Movement below the giant drew his attention—a smaller figure, almost mundane by comparison, though no less unsettling.

A young girl stood there, her frame dwarfed by the colossal entity beside her. Despite her imposing height—around 183 centimeters, close to Bran’s stature—her face carried a startling youthfulness. Elysian couldn’t be certain of her age, but judging by her features, if he had to guess, she couldn’t have been older than fifteen. This contrast between her size and her almost childlike visage made her all the more unsettling.

Her body was lithe but powerful, lean muscle wrapped in pale, faintly mottled skin that hinted at her heritage. The slight curve of her shoulders and wiry limbs spoke of raw strength refined into deadly precision. Every movement she made was purposeful, almost too controlled, as if every step, every shift, was calculated to perfection.

Her face carried the shadow of humanity but was undeniably tinged with something alien. Her features were sharp, predatory, and eerily symmetrical—cheekbones too high, eyes too deep-set, their amber irises catching the light like a predator's. Her nose had a subtle curve, almost delicate, but it only served to heighten the intensity of her gaze.

The girl’s mouth, though far more normal than the monster beside her, carried an unsettling quality in its stillness, lips pressed tight with the restraint of someone who could bare her teeth if provoked. Her hair was dark, braided back in rows that kept it from her face, further emphasizing her sharp, angular features.

The contrast between the two figures was stark: where the massive creature promised unbridled destruction, the girl radiated a quieter, sharper threat. She moved like a blade unsheathed, her predatory grace hinting at speed, precision, and an intellect that rivaled her physical prowess. She was no brute like her larger counterpart; she was the kind of predator that planned, stalked, and struck with devastating intent.

There was no mistaking her lineage, a creature that should not have existed.

Elysian’s breath caught in his throat as his gaze flicked between the two. The oppressive presence of the massive monster was matched only by the unsettling composure of the girl. The air around them seemed charged, each second tightening like a noose around his chest, ready to snap at the faintest movement.

"Hello," the girl greeted with an enthusiastic wave, her smile wide and disarmingly friendly. "I’m Kaerthlyn of Clan Draekthar," she announced before gesturing toward the colossal figure looming behind her. "And this is Brodhar."

Brodhar rumbled something incomprehensible—a guttural, rhythmic string of syllables that reverberated like grinding stone. The sound seemed to vibrate through the very air, carrying an ancient weight, alien yet undeniably purposeful.

Elysian stiffened. He didn’t understand the words, but the tone wasn’t outright threatening. If anything, it carried a gruff humor, like a jest made at his expense. Or an insult. Either way, his fear didn’t relent. How could it, with the towering figure so close? Powerless and cornered as he was, his instincts remained ever vigilant.

Kaerthlyn laughed lightly, the sound unexpectedly bright and carefree. "He said hi, by the way," she translated with a grin.

Elysian gave Brodhar a curt nod, though he doubted the greeting was as simple as she claimed. His mind noticed another detail—her fluency. Inhabitants from Grimwold speaking his language wasn’t unheard of, but Kaerthlyn’s ease with it was startling. Yet there was something distinct in her cadence, a subtle rhythm and accent betraying her origins.

What caught him more off guard, though, was her voice. Sweet, melodic, and entirely at odds with her imposing size. Before, he’d only had her youthful face to base his guess on, but hearing her now confirmed it; she couldn’t be much older than Osric or Bran.

Elysian managed a small smile in return, but it faltered almost immediately. As friendly as she seemed, his gaze couldn’t help but glance at the small fangs peeking over her lower lip. They were slight—hardly monstrous—but unmistakably sharp, predatory in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes back to hers.

‘Damn it, don’t stare. That’s rude.’

"I’m Elysian Ironheart, son of Baron Thornwich of Ironspire," he blurted out quickly, fumbling to match her introduction. His forced smile returned, stiff and likely more awkward than he realized.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, assessing, before her smile widened further. If she noticed his unease—or his glance at her fangs—she didn’t let it show. And Elysian was grateful for that.

The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, as Kaerthlyn waited patiently. Elysian, meanwhile, was caught in the futile process of trying to say something—anything—but the words refused to come. His hesitation wasn’t born of politeness but sheer confusion. He had too many questions, all jostling for space in his head. Was it safe to ask? Would they even answer? Worse still, his thoughts were a tangled mess, his mind reeling from the shock of his situation. Every time he reached for clarity, it slipped through his grasp like sand.

‘Say something. Anything.’

Elysian swallowed hard, stealing a glance at Brodhar, who stood motionless but radiated a quiet, overwhelming presence. He quickly returned his focus to Kaerthlyn, the smaller—and infinitely less terrifying—of the two.

“Hmm… where am I?” he finally managed, his voice rough and unsure.

Kaerthlyn’s smile widened, warm and oddly disarming. “You’re in Kor’Morul,” she replied cheerfully. “Inside Draekthar’s lands.”

‘Kor’Morul? Where is that?’

Elysian’s brow furrowed as the name tugged at something in the recesses of his memory.

‘Wait. I’ve heard that before… Where did I—’

Elysian’s eyes widened, realization crashing down on him like a tidal wave. “F*ck, I’m inside Grimwold.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice barely above a whisper but heavy with dread. Grimwold. The name carried all the weight of a death sentence, a place spoken of in hushed tones and grim tales. Now, impossibly, he was here.