Vision of Malakar

The wind dies. A lone, hooded figure steps from the tree line toward a fortress bristling with siege weapons.

Then—a massive shadow overhead.

Five streams of fire, each a different color, rain from the sky. The air ignites with the stench of sulfur, scorched metal, and burning flesh.

In seconds, the fortress is gone—nothing but drifting ash and flickering embers.

Three survivors crawl from the ruin:

• A soldier.

• A civilian.

• An old merchant, coughing, dragging a singed satchel.

Malakar walks behind them in human form, silent. Four wolves follow—smoke curling from their fur.

The merchant stumbles. Falls. He reaches up, wheezing.

“Please…”

The others look back—and keep walking.

The wolves strike. Flesh tears. His screams are swallowed by fire and fang.

Then, the soldier turns. Pulls an arrow.

Stabs it into the civilian’s leg.

The civilian screams—two wolves pounce.

Malakar watches. Still. Unblinking.

A slow smirk curls across his face.

As lifts his gaze to the sky