They say the mists came first — thick as milk, laced with thunder. The birds fell silent. The air held its breath.

On the ridge above Malvern Hill, a figure stepped through the swirling fog, taller than any man, bare-chested despite the cold. His eyes were grey lightning. At his side walked two wolves — one black as night, the other pale as moonlight. Above, the sky split with stormlight as dragons circled unseen, their cries lost in thunder.

Taranis had returned.

Ten years since exile. Ten years since fire and shame. And now, the boy they cast out came back as something else entirely.

A warrior. A storm. A reckoning.