Two weeks after Kar-Halgrun's collapse, a lone rider crested the scorched ridge overlooking the valley. He was draped in a cloak of emberleaf, a material used only by the Verdant Wardens — Terra's elite forest-scouts. The once-green canopy now lay in ruin, leaves withered, trees charred black like broken matchsticks. Smoke twisted through the branches, even though no flames remained.
Ronan Earthward, captain of the Wardens, stared down into the blackened basin. He had grown up in the forests bordering the mountain, had once hunted elk in these woods. Now, the land felt wrong beneath his boots. Heavy. Listening.
He dismounted and signaled for the others.
Ten Wardens emerged from the trees behind him. Their mounts were lean forest-stallions, bred for silence and speed. Each Warden bore a different weapon — longbow, crescent-blades, stone axes. These were not soldiers. These were guardians of Terra's ancient ways. And they had never been afraid of anything in their lives.
Until now.
Ronan raised his fist, halting the company. "From this point forward, nothing is to be touched," he said. "No samples. No tracking. The queen's orders are clear. We scout. We don't provoke."
His second-in-command, a short woman with tattoos of root sigils across her face, scowled. "If it's just ash and stone, what are we afraid of?"
Ronan stared at the ruined mountain. "It's not the mountain we fear. It's what might have survived it."
They descended.
The earth was fractured and steaming. Pools of bubbling tar had replaced freshwater springs. Ash fell like snow, but it did not melt on contact — it clung, and it stung. One Warden, Callin, brushed some from his cheek. The skin beneath sizzled and turned black.
"Don't touch anything," Ronan growled again.
They passed a broken statue — one of the old dwarven gods, shattered but not scorched. Ronan bent down to examine the stone and noticed something chilling: the break in the statue was not caused by an explosion or a fall. It had been melted — the granite edges slick and molten, like candle wax.
Further in, they found bones.
Some were dwarven — charred, twisted, and blackened. Others were not. Huge, malformed skeletons with jagged ribs and no eyes. Things that had never walked the surface before. Ronan felt his stomach churn.
"What in the name of the Old Roots is this?" someone whispered.
Then the ground moaned.
At first, it sounded like shifting rock. But then the sound deepened — took on rhythm, purpose. A kind of breathing. As if the earth itself were drawing in a breath.
Ronan didn't wait to find out what came next.
"Back," he ordered. "We've seen enough. This place is not for us."
They turned to leave — and the ash began to move.
It wasn't a wind. There was no gust. The ash simply rose of its own accord, forming into whirling spires and claw-like fingers that reached toward the sky. Then it fell—not softly, but like a hammer. The ground cracked. Flame erupted from fissures.
And something roared beneath them.
The Wardens ran.