The Watcher’s Tower

The aftermath of the storm hung in the air like a bruise on the world.

Ash-gray clouds lingered where the crimson flares had burned hours before, and though the black rain had ceased, the scent of brine and rot still clung to the soil. No birds returned. No wind stirred. Even the snow—usually soft and hushing—lay cracked and pitted where it had absorbed the Herald's taint.

Selena walked through the remains of camp in silence, her boots crunching on ruined ice. Around her, soldiers worked quietly, eyes hollow with exhaustion and awe. The body of the Crowned Herald had been burned before dawn—at her command. No one argued. They didn't want to risk the ground claiming him again.

But burning him hadn't lifted the weight pressing on their shoulders. If anything, it had deepened it.

One Herald down. Five more signaled. And no sign of what—or who—would come next.