The Unseen swarmed the clearing, shadows given teeth and claws. But for the first time in an age, the defenders of Aerbor fought in unison. Every strike of a sword, every burst of flame, and every shout of defiance added a note to the growing melody. It was a song of reclamation, a chorus of iron and will that pushed the darkness back inch by agonizing inch.

Aris couldn't hear the music, but he could feel the silence. In the world of , power wasn't just taken; it was composed. To command an army was to conduct a symphony of steel and magic. But the instruments were broken.

Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, choked by the encroaching rot of the Unseen.

Aris watched from the altar, realizing that the story wasn't written in his books. It was being written in the dirt and blood of the battlefield. The weren't just legends of the past; they were the battle cries of the present.