The ruins of an ancient battlefield stretched endlessly before him, a graveyard of forgotten wars.
Crumbling stone pillars jutted out from the scorched earth, silent witnesses to battles long past.
The air was thick with dust, disturbed only by the faintest breeze that whispered through the cracks in the land.
And in the center of it all stood Charon.
His staff rested lazily against his shoulder, its once-ornate carvings worn down by time and use.
His green eyes, sharp yet unreadable, surveyed the desolate landscape with neither admiration nor disdain. It had been three months.
Three months since he felt the shift.
At first, it was subtle—a faint tremor in the balance of the world, something only those who had lived long enough could recognize. But as time passed, the tremor grew into a storm.
Someone was changing the flow of Trion itself.
And now, there was no doubt as to who.
Arlon.
Charon let out a small breath, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
