In the cathedral’s dying light, Wulf kneels, his gauntlets buried in the stone as if the planet itself must hold him down. Blue fire burns where his eyes should be, bright and merciless, swallowing the last traces of the man Reina is trying to reach.

The Eldritch Necromancer did not strike his body.

He struck the grave.

By dragging Emberlynn’s memory from the silence of death and twisting it into a grotesque undead dragon, he turned one of Wulf’s beloved wive's from eons ago into a weapon against him. The Necromancer knew that beneath Wulf’s strength lived a grief so ancient, so violently buried, that reopening it could turn the unforgiving slayer into the very apocalypse he was meant to stop.

And Reina knows it too.

She kneels before him through smoke, embers, and trembling stone, tears spilling from orange eyes as she cups his snarling face in her hands. She doesn't command him, nor does she fear him enough to run. She simply holds on, trying to remind him that he is more than rage, more than loss, and much more than the Warpath clawing its way back through his bones.

Around them, the world burns.

Inside him, something worse awakens.

And in that impossible moment, Reina becomes the last fragile thing standing between Wulf’s heartbreak and the end of everything.

By wrath unchained, by sorrow sworn,
He rises where shattered heavens mourn.
False kings shall kneel, the void shall quake,
For every soul you dared to take.

No crown, no sigil, no abyss,
Shall hide your blasphemies from this.
His vow is iron. His mercy, gone.
He is the storm you called upon...

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