The Wailing Woods was a place usually defined by the primal screams of forest wolves and the rhythmic, sulfurous hiss of the encroaching mist. But tonight, the ancient silence was violated by a sound that didn't belong to this world: the high-pitched, electric whine of spinning rotors and the clinical hum of cooling fans.
Vespera, the Shadow Tracker, stood perched atop a petrified branch of a blackened Ironwood tree. Her frame was a silhouette of lethal elegance, her violet cloak bleeding into the darkness. In her hands, a longbow of pure, solidified twilight vibrated with a predatory hunger, mirroring the cold fury etched into her sharp features. Below her, the earth was a map of Brassvale's failure. Thamuz, the once-unstoppable Executioner, lay slumped against a stump, his magnificent zirah dead and cold after the EMP blast.
And in the center of it all stood the Anomaly—a man without a drop of Mana, and a "doll" with silver hair who had just rewritten the rules of combat.
