The stone beneath Voryn's feet trembled.
It was subtle—a pulse more than a quake. But he felt it in his bones, in the scarred grooves of his palms. The energy threaded through the obsidian floor like veins of dying light, reaching up through the Hollow Fang fortress and into the cavernous wound of the Black Maw.
Something ancient had stirred.
Something that dared to answer the void.
Voryn turned from the altar, black ichor still dripping from his fingertips. The blood sacrifice had been incomplete—his acolytes had failed to bring the flame-wielder he needed. But the disturbance wasn't from his work.
It came from her.
"Aria," he whispered, voice barely more than a growl.
Behind him, shadow-wolves—twisted, bone-armored creatures loyal only to his call—rippled with unease. They could feel it too. The fire that had once gone silent now flared back into existence, no longer dormant… but claimed.
