The wind howled through the Hollow Vale like a cry from a long-dead god. Cold, biting, and full of memory. It scraped across Thalen's cloak as he stood on the ridgeline, his sword resting against his shoulder. Beneath him, the land stretched wide ash-choked, cracked, and riddled with the remnants of ancient war. Fires smoldered in the distance, not wild but controlled, burning in lines that marked the advance of something unnatural.
They were moving again the Iron Revenants.
"Two hundred strong," said Eryndor behind him, folding his arms. "And those are just the ones we can count."
Thalen didn't respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the front ranks. Gleaming armor, spiked and blackened by fire. Motionless until commanded. And at their center, a figure cloaked in crimson haze the Revenant Warlord.
"He's challenging me again," Thalen murmured.
"You've already fought him once."
