The sky cracked over the Realm of Embers.
Aran and Elira stood on the ridge as black flame bled across the horizon. The World-Flame pulsed erratically, as if breathing with a fractured lung.
"It's not just opening," Elira said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's merging."
From the heart of the sky, a silhouette descended — not falling, but unraveling. Cloaked in chains of starlight and shadows, the Hollow King stepped through the rent in reality.
His voice echoed across the valley.
"I have returned not to destroy—but to finish what you feared to begin."
Aran stepped forward, blade in hand, fire in his blood.
"You'll not take my son."
The Hollow King smiled.
"He already walked to me."