The banners of Soryu snap in the morning wind.
The city glitters like a blade being drawn; the Council has called every legion to arms. Rumors flood the barracks—whispers of orc witchcraft, of mountains burning with forbidden fire.
Teinshi stands on the parade grounds as soldiers form ranks. His own breath clouds in the cold air. The sigil of the serpent still glows faintly beneath his armor, a light no one else can see.
"Commander Raen," barks Marshal Kareth, "you'll lead the vanguard. Our scouts say the Bloodfang are gathering north of the Vale. Their witch-general leads them herself."
Teinshi's pulse spikes at the word witch.
"I understand," he answers, though his voice sounds distant even to himself.
When the Marshal strides off, he glances toward the stormy horizon. Adodeme. He doesn't know how he knows her name—but when he whispers it, the serpent mark flares like recognition.
Aegra growls low, sensing his unease. "I'm not afraid of her," he murmurs. But the lie burns in his throat.
Far across the border, the Bloodfang war host gathers in the shadow of the peaks. The air is thick with ash and frost, the scent of forges and beastfire.
Adodeme watches from the ramparts as warriors sharpen blades and harness beasts. The serpent mark on her palm pulses in time with her heartbeat. Each throb sends warmth up her arm—warmth that feels nothing like rage.
Her father approaches in full warplate, tusks glinting like polished stone.
"The humans are mobilizing," Voryn growls. "Their commander—the one with the lightning beasts—he's coming for us."
Adodeme stiffens, hiding her reaction. "Then we meet them head-on."
"You'll lead the left flank. Prove the gods did not err when they marked you."
She bows low, the gesture hiding the spark of dread in her eyes.
When he's gone, her mother emerges from the shadows. "The serpent's fire grows stronger," Delaya whispers. "Be careful what you awaken on the battlefield."
Adodeme looks toward the mountains and feels the thread tugging at her heart again. "I think it's already awake."
That night, both armies march. The Vale lies silent under the moon, its grasses whispering secrets to the wind.
On one side, Teinshi rides ahead of the human host, silver armor gleaming faintly. On the other, Adodeme leads her orcs through the mist, their breath steaming in the cold.
Neither sees the other yet, but the bond thrums like a pulse between storm clouds—lightning waiting to strike.
Aegra suddenly halts, hackles raised. Kaen circles once and shrieks.
Across the valley, Rukhar answers with a roar that shakes the ground.
Teinshi's heart slams against his ribs. She's here.
Adodeme's breath catches. So it was never a dream.
The armies halt, sensing something ancient stirring beneath the soil.
Lightning flares. Fire answers. Between them, the river glows faintly silver and gold where the light meets.
Every warrior feels it: the pull of destiny, the hum of the serpent coiling unseen below the earth.
Neither side dares to move first.
Teinshi draws his sword. Adodeme raises her axes.
The wind dies.
Then—silence, thick and expectant, as though the world itself holds its breath.