Echoes of Despair

The air in the Nexus of Power crackled, not just with the nascent energy Kaelen had coaxed into being, but with a palpable dread that seeped into the very stone. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the chill of the ancient ruins and everything to do with a presence that had finally arrived. Malakor. The name itself felt like a shard of ice in Kaelen’s heart, a whisper from the shadows he had fought so hard to outrun.

Lyra’s hand tightened on his arm, her knuckles white against the worn leather of her glove. Her eyes, usually pools of calm wisdom, were wide with a fear Kaelen had never seen before. “He is here,” she breathed, her voice barely audible above the rising wind that seemed to mourn the world. “The darkness… it has found its anchor.”

Kaelen turned, his gaze sweeping across the shattered expanse of the Nexus. Dust motes danced in the faint, ethereal light that pulsed from the central altar, a light that now seemed to flicker, as if recoiling from the encroaching gloom. And then he saw him.