The fire still smoldered in Harrowstead. The battle had ended, but the aftermath still clung to the air—ashes drifting like snowflakes, the ground soaked in blood both old and new. The stench of burnt wood and flesh lingered, coating the inside of Jack’s throat like something tangible. He stood amidst the wreckage, staring at the bodies of the corrupted villagers who had tried to slaughter them.

And yet, despite all they had fought, all they had endured, Jack found himself questioning everything.

Had they done the right thing?

The people they had killed were no longer truly people—twisted, consumed by something dark. But was their destruction justified? Had their deaths brought justice, or had they merely ended lives they did not understand?

Jack clenched his fists.

No.

This wasn’t the time to fall into that spiral again. But Justin’s words gnawed at the edges of his thoughts like a disease, spreading doubt through his every decision.

Jones and Page stood a short distance away, speaking in hushed voices. The surviving villagers—those who had not succumbed to the corruption—were gathering what little they had left. They were shaken, terrified, but grateful to be alive. Eamon, standing near the ruins of what had once been a town hall, was deep in thought.

Then, the world shifted.

The air felt heavier, as if the very earth was holding its breath. A presence—subtle yet undeniable—descended upon them. Jack turned sharply, hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

A man stepped forward.

He was draped in long, flowing robes of deep blue and gray, the fabric adorned with intricate embroidery of symbols Jack could not recognize. His hair was stark white, his face weathered but strong. Eyes like aged stone surveyed them with an expression unreadable yet commanding.

Jack had never seen him before, but Eamon had.

Osric.

A member of the Council of Sages. One of the oldest among them, though not as ancient as the Master Watcher himself.

Eamon’s face tightened in surprise, then in concern. “Osric?”

Osric’s gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the destruction before settling on Eamon. “The Council has sent me with urgent news,” he said, his voice smooth but grave. “The Scourge has revealed himself.”

Jack’s breath caught in his throat.

Page stiffened. Jones, always skeptical, narrowed his eyes.

Eamon, however, took a slow, careful step forward. “You’re certain?”

Osric nodded. “There is no doubt. The corruption here was but a ripple compared to what has been uncovered. The true Scourge has taken root in a fortress east of the Hollow Expanse.” His eyes darkened. “And he is gathering power.”

Silence.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Jack felt something cold slither down his spine. A fortress?

If this was true—if they had truly found the Scourge—then this was what they had been searching for all along.

This was the moment.

Page shifted uneasily. “And you’re sure of this?”

Osric turned his gaze to her. “The Council has divined it. We would not have sent for you otherwise.”

Jack looked to Eamon, expecting hesitation. But to his surprise, Eamon seemed troubled, yes, but also resolved. He had no reason to doubt Osric. None of them did.

Osric was a sage. A trusted voice. If the Council had declared this to be true, then who were they to question it?

Jack clenched his jaw.

Justin had been unsettling—his words, his presence. But this changed everything.

Justin had never claimed to be the Scourge. He had toyed with them, spoken in riddles, but there had been nothing concrete. Perhaps he wasn’t the Scourge at all. Perhaps he was just a twisted man, a sadistic manipulator who reveled in suffering.

But now, they had a name. A location. A confirmed presence of something greater.

This wasn’t suspicion.

This was certainty.

Jack took a breath, steadying himself. “Then we have no time to waste,” he said.

Osric gave a solemn nod. “No, we do not.”

And with that, the course of their journey changed.

They would march east.

Straight into the unknown.