The battlefield lay in eerie quiet, the last echoes of war retreating into the darkened sky. The acrid stench of blood, charred metal, and broken earth clung to the air, mingling with the ghostly whispers of the fallen. Men and beasts alike lay motionless, their final moments frozen in time.

Garett stood at the heart of it all, motionless, his polearm resting at his side. The armor he bore was no longer pristine; it was marred, its metal scored by blade and fire. The Azeroth Drive pulsed against his chest, slow and measured, a rhythmic drumbeat against the silence. He did not bask in the glory of victory. He did not revel in the cheers that would inevitably come. Instead, his eyes—hidden behind his greathelm—were fixed upon the scattered remains of his enemy, the knight who had stood before him with such unyielding resolve.

A wind swept across the field, cold and sharp, carrying away the last traces of the knight’s form as if the world itself sought to erase his existence.

Then, from the hushed reverence, a voice rose.

Soft at first—a whisper, an exhale of disbelief. Then, like a tide breaking against the shore, it spread.

The townsfolk and adventurers erupted into a thunderous cry, their voices crashing together in raw, unfiltered relief. Some wept, others fell to their knees, and a few raised their weapons skyward in salute. The battle was over. They were alive. They had won.

Yet, in the face of their triumph, Garett remained still.

Then, he raised his hand. Not in celebration, not in acknowledgment—but in remembrance.

“Honor them.”

The revelry stilled, as if the very ground beneath them demanded silence. The weight of the battle, of the lives lost, settled upon them like a cloak of iron. A victory, yes—but at what cost?

Wulfric stepped forward, his massive frame battered, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he merely studied the Helmed Man. Then, with a broad grin that spoke of boundless relief, he seized Garett by the waist and hoisted him onto his back as though he were little more than a sack of grain.

“Behold our savior!” Wulfric bellowed. “The Helmed Man!”

The cheers returned, but now they were different—no longer wild, no longer reckless. Now, they were laced with something deeper. Awe. Gratitude. The knowledge that, for a moment, they had stood at the precipice of death and survived.

On the battlefield’s edge, Lyra watched, arms crossed, her chest rising and falling in measured breaths. Nyx perched upon her shoulder, eyes of infinite depth reflecting the flickering torchlight.

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Leona and Nissa knelt at Cedric’s side, working with deft hands to mend his wounds. The scent of healing salves mixed with the metallic tang of blood. Cedric’s face was pale, his breathing ragged, but when his eyes fluttered open, they locked onto Lyra.

“Lyra…” His voice, hoarse but steady, carried more weight than any battle cry.

She knelt beside him, clasping his hand. “Father…!”

A tired smile touched his lips before his strength failed him once more. Yet, he lived. And for now, that was enough.

Beyond them, Anya, her injuries no longer severe, wandered through the wreckage. Her fingers brushed against something nestled among the ruins, something that pulsed with an inner glow. She lifted it, turning it over in her hands—a fragment of Luminite, humming with residual energy.

She furrowed her brow. “Strange…”

Lyra, now standing beside her, exhaled a soft chuckle. “There’s an old legend,” she mused.

Anya looked up, intrigued. “What kind of legend?”

Lyra turned the fragment over in her hands, its glow reflecting in her storm-gray eyes. “A knight from the lost era,” she murmured. “A man who climbed higher than any other, who gathered power beyond reckoning. But in the end, he lost it all. His friends. His kingdom. His own self. He became something… else.” She shrugged, tossing the fragment lightly back to Anya. “But it’s just a story.”

She turned away before Anya could respond.

Anya, however, remained staring at the Luminite, as if it carried an answer she had not yet learned to read.

As dawn broke over the battlefield, the scattered remnants of the enemy still lingered. Not all of the ghouls and manticores had perished alongside their master. Some, sensing the knight’s fall, had fled into the woods or the ruins of Elderwynd, seeking to escape. But they would not find sanctuary. Adventurers and Anya’s men, bloodied yet unbowed, took up their weapons once more. They hunted the fleeing creatures through the mist-laden streets and the blackened trees, cutting them down before they could regroup. It was not a battle, not anymore. It was a reckoning. And with each strike of steel and bolt of fire, they ensured that no shadow of the enemy would remain.

And across the field, as Wulfric’s elation dimmed, a grim realization dawned. His fingers curled into fists, his jaw tightened. He knew. There was only one man who could have orchestrated this attack.

“Lyrius Draconis.”

He spat the name as if it were poison.

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Blackfrost Keep loomed in the eternal twilight of the north, its jagged towers stretching toward the storm-ridden sky like the talons of some great beast. Frost clung to the obsidian walls, glimmering in the cold glow of the void-lanterns that lined the great hall. A presence dwelled here, one that did not belong to the living.

At the heart of the chamber stood a sarcophagus, vast and ancient, a relic of an age beyond mortal reckoning. Its surface was not of stone, nor metal, but something otherworldly—a dark, seamless alloy inscribed with luminous veins of shifting energy. It pulsed, slow and steady, a heartbeat encased in eternity. Symbols, long forgotten by even the oldest scholars, wove intricate patterns across its face, shifting as if whispering secrets to those who dared listen.

Lyrius Draconis sat upon his throne, his fingers steepled, eyes fixed upon the monolithic tomb before him. The light of the chamber barely touched him, as though the shadows themselves recoiled from his presence. Slowly, he rose, his midnight cloak trailing behind him like the wings of a specter. He stepped forward, reaching out with a gloved hand to trace the sarcophagus’s surface.

A smirk, cold and knowing, curled upon his lips.

“I did promise you a glorious end this time around.”