As the others dispersed to make ready for another journey, another chase across the endless expanse of the continent, Elric found himself alone with his thoughts once more. He touched the talisman through his shirt, feeling its familiar weight against his chest, and whispered a prayer to whatever gods might be listening.

Let this be the one. Let this be the trail that finally leads us to him.

The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, burning away the mist and revealing the sprawling city of Ravenspire in all its ancient glory. Somewhere out there, beyond the walls and towers, beyond the rolling hills and distant mountains, the Shadowman waited. Elric could feel it in his bones, a certainty that went deeper than hope or desperation.

Four years of searching, four years of growing stronger and more skilled, four years of carrying the weight of his family's memory like a sacred burden. But he was ready now, ready in a way he had not been that terrible night in Emberfall when he had been nothing more than a grief-stricken blacksmith clutching his daughter's broken doll.

The Shadowman had made a mistake in letting him live. Soon, very soon, the monster would learn the price of that error.

Elric Ironheart, once a simple craftsman who shaped metal with fire and hammer, now a warrior forged in the crucible of loss and tempered by years of relentless purpose, would have his vengeance at last.

The hunt would continue, as it had for four long years, but this time felt different. This time, he could almost taste victory on the wind.

This time, he would not fail.