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The air was thick with the scent of iron and old magic. On the desolate cliffs of Eryndor, where the sea screamed against jagged rocks far below, two figures stood cloaked in shadow. One, draped in a mantle of black feathers, his pale hand tracing the edge of a silver dagger. The other, taller, his dark crimson robes embroidered with symbols of forgotten gods, their threads faintly pulsing in time with his breath. “Swear it,” whispered Kaelen, the warlock of ash and ruin. His voice was low, but it reverberated through the stone beneath their feet. “Swear it on your power… on your life.” Dareth’s golden eyes glowed in the darkness, catching the faint red gleam of the rising blood moon. “And if I do?” His voice was smoother, like honeyed wine laced with venom. “What then, Kael? Will you trust me at last?” Kaelen’s jaw tightened. The silver dagger in his grip trembled. “I trust no one,” he said. “But I need you.” They stood there, silence stretched thin between them, save for the crash of