Lord Galric of Emberreach stood atop the basalt ridge overlooking his smoldering valley. Below, towers of blackened stone spiraled toward a sky dyed crimson from ash and heat. Charred corpses dotted the broken remains of his enemies’ camps, scattered among molten earth and scorched timber.

  The Drakeheart Crucible pulsed behind him, a massive obsidian forge shaped like the ribcage of some great serpent. The structure steamed constantly with an unnatural red glow, releasing streams of smoke laced with burning embers. From it, he summoned his Arm — a line of scaled warriors born of dragon blood and magma veins.

  His personal champion, a towering humanoid beast with a wyrm’s head and molten claws, stood at his side.

  “The valley is ours,” the creature rumbled.

  Galric nodded, armored in dragonbone and fireglass. “Let them choke on smoke if they wish to test me.”

  The wind shifted. Power hung in it. A change was coming — one he could feel in the depths of his Crucible.

  A message was on its way.

  ---

  Lady Virelya of the Dying Glade moved through a field of black lilies, each flower the withered remnant of a fallen lord. Her domain pulsed with disease, its beauty deceptive and suffocating.

  The Plague-Cyst Garden towered in the distance — a living hive of twisted vines and pulsing growths that leaked spores into the air.

  She was pale and elegant, draped in silks that rippled like rotting leaves. Around her danced the Mournbound, her plagueborn arms: graceful creatures made of bone and bile, trailing veils of rot.

  She held a finger to the wind.

  “It’s time,” she whispered. “They’ll know now, won’t they?”

  A black lily bloomed at her feet.

  The world was listening.

  ---

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  Lord Caelthorn, the Sky-Feathered Regent, sat upon the floating isle of Aetherroost, his throne bound by clouds and supported by coils of wind. The Eyrie Spire at its peak cracked with lightning as a storm raged beneath him.

  He was cloaked in pale azure robes lined with feathers, his hair windblown and eyes shimmering with cerulean energy.

  From the great stone perches surrounding his throne, his Stormwing Phalanx waited — immense hawk-headed warriors whose wings folded into armor, sparks dancing across their talons.

  Below, the last rebellious faction in his region lay shattered, their forces swept into the open sky.

  “We fly alone now,” Caelthorn said. “And we fly higher than ever.”

  A pulse stirred the air.

  A new storm approached.

  ---

  Dain of the Bramblemark stood barefoot atop a crag of thornwood, the wind tugging at his tattered furs. His hands were bloodied, his chest bare and scratched with ritual scars.

  Behind him, nestled in the hollow trunk of an enormous ancient tree, pulsed the Rootcaller’s Altar. From it, he summoned beasts of earth and claw — his Wildborn Guardians. They were not elegant or refined. They were raw, feral, and relentless.

  Dain was not a scholar, nor a tactician. But he had beaten back every enemy with a snarl and a spear.

  He turned his gaze to the trees.

  “They’ll name me ruler soon,” he muttered. “Let’s see if that changes anything.”

  The woods whispered in response.

  ---

  Lady Azaneth of the Crimson Dawn watched the sun rise over her glass citadel, her silhouette reflected in its blood-red panes. She was regal and cold, her skin like porcelain etched with veins of gold.

  At the peak of her Ashen Flame Cathedral, a great brazier burned with immortal fire — the Phoenix’s Crucible. From it, her Emberborn rose, avian warriors with glowing talons and wings of shifting flame.

  Her last rival had perished in a blaze of brilliance, leaving her lands silent and shining.

  She reached into the brazier and touched the flame.

  The fire welcomed her.

  Something new was stirring in the embers.

  ---

  Lord Ferin of Hollowwatch huddled in the shadow of crumbling ruins, the once-great city he now called his own. He was thin, quiet, and cautious, his arms wrapped in scavenged furs.

  His Shadegate Crypt was barely more than a ruin, a cracked obsidian archway that whispered to him when the moon rose.

  From it, he summoned the Whisperbound — ghostly figures with blades forged from sorrow, barely strong enough to hold against elite foes but fast, subtle, and hard to track.

  Ferin didn’t fight through strength.

  He fought through absence.

  Every battle he had won had been without being seen.

  And now, at last, his corner of the world lay under his control.

  A low hum passed through the crypt behind him.

  Something was coming.

  And even he knew — the game was about to change.

  ---

  Across the Greater Territory known as the Sylvan Reaches, six rulers stood on the edge of a new reality.

  Each had taken their throne with fire, blood, shadow, or cunning.

  None of them knew of Selene.

  None of them had heard the name Court of Balance.

  But they were about to.

  Because the world was preparing to draw its champions together.

  And only one would ascend.