The colossal hand tightened on the edge of the abyss.
Stone screamed.
Ancient roots snapped.
Then the Deep Root Sovereign began to rise.
Slowly.
As if the mountain itself was being lifted by something older than mountains.
Its head emerged first—
a crown of jagged stone antlers.
Eyes like molten suns opening beneath layers of earth.
Its face was carved, not born.
As if gods had once been sculpted.
Kalen stared upward.
"…I revoke every bad decision that brought us here."
No one laughed.
Azrakar knelt.
The Blood King.
Kneeling.
That told Aran enough.
The Sovereign's gaze fell upon him.
And the marks on Aran's arm blazed so bright Lena had to shield her eyes.
The voice came not through sound—
through blood.
Azran. Returned.
Memory struck like lightning.
Not fragments.
A flood.
He saw himself standing before this being ages ago.
Not as mortal.
As prince.
As oath-bearer.
Azran.
He stumbled.
Lena caught him.
"What did you see?"
He whispered,
"I was born here."
Silence.
Even battle paused.
The Sovereign extended a mountain-sized hand.
Come home."
Aran felt the pull like gravity.
Ancient belonging.
Terrible temptation.
Tazruth roared,
"No!"
The giant leapt, driving his chained weapon into the Sovereign's arm.
Impact shook the chamber.
The Sovereign barely noticed.
With one motion it threw Tazruth across the blood lake.
Azrakar rose.
"My son belongs below."
Lena stepped in front of Aran.
"He belongs where he chooses."
Azrakar almost smiled.
"Choice is a luxury of the unawakened."
Then he attacked.
Fast as blood through veins.
His blade of red stone met Lena's steel.
Shockwaves burst.
Kalen fought three blood warriors at once, somehow still complaining.
"I miss ordinary bandits."
Aran stood frozen.
Between father and friend.
Between origin and self.
The crimson blade in his hand pulsed.
Demanding decision.
Then the Sovereign spoke again.
Take the Throne of Roots.
Behind it—
deep within the abyss—
something began rising.
A throne.
Massive.
Entwined in living roots and black stone.
Ancient sigils burning across it.
Aran recognized it instinctively.
Inheritance.
The throne of the forgotten line.
Azrakar drove Lena back.
Blood sprayed across stone.
Aran's breath stopped.
Something primal snapped.
The crimson blade changed.
Its edge lengthened.
Red became white fire.
Tazruth looked up in shock.
"The Mountain Fang…"
Legend.
Awakened.
Aran moved.
Too fast for thought.
He intercepted Azrakar's next strike.
Father and son locked blades.
Azrakar's eyes widened.
Recognition.
At last.
"There you are."
Aran pushed him back.
"I am not what you buried."
Then struck.
Their blades collided with a sound like cracking peaks.
The Sovereign watched.
Almost pleased.
Then—
the throne in the abyss fully rose.
And something sat upon it.
Already seated.
A figure in ancient armor.
Motionless.
Waiting.
Aran felt cold terror.
Because it wore his face.