The world was ending.

Voss felt it in the bitter wind, in the death cries of warriors, in the ice creeping over the battlefield like an executioner's hand. What had begun as a last stand had become a massacre. The High Lord's forces swept through the resistance like wildfire, his corrupted goblins and mutated orcs tearing through soldiers who had already lost the will to fight.

She stood in the center of it all, her blade slick with blood, her body screaming in pain. Somewhere in the chaos, she had lost her helmet. Her once-pristine armor was now cracked and scorched, stained with the deaths of friends and foes alike.

And above her, casting a long shadow across the ruins of the battlefield, was Negar.

The ice-dragon's wings thundered as it descended, its massive form blotting out the sky. With a single breath, it unleashed a storm of freezing death. A wall of ice exploded across the battlefield, freezing men where they stood, their bodies shattering like glass.

Voss barely had time to move.

The cold slammed into her like a warhammer, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt her limbs stiffen, the frost creeping into her veins. Her vision blurred. She fell to her knees.

This was how it ended.

The High Lord had won.

No.

A voice—ancient, dark, familiar—whispered through the storm. Shadows curled at the edges of her vision, coiling like living things. She knew this power. It had always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting.

Drakonix.

The hydra's roar shattered the sky, six voices rising in unison. Its massive form tore through the battlefield, ice melting under the sheer force of its presence. Voss felt the bond between them pulse, a connection beyond magic, beyond mortality.

And then—She died.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

But death would not take her.

Because she was not meant to die.

Because she was something more.

Because she was shadow.