The roads ahead were quiet, the wind carrying the scent of burnt heather and distant sea. Each hoofbeat reminded me that the choice I had made was mine alone, yet its echo stretched far beyond my chest. The Circle was gone, fractured beneath my hand, but its memory clung to the land. Rome watched, the storm of Emberhelm lingered, and survival demanded cold calculation. I rode on, carrying the weight of betrayal, the pull of the Ring, and the quiet certainty that storms wait, gather, and return inevitable, unstoppable.