The silence that followed was deafening. The Council remained on their knees, shaking off the residual "madness" Björn had stirred, while Yuki and the Paragons looked at one another with grim realization.

The prophecy was dark. The "Great Wolf" could only be the werewolves godlings, and the "Silver" was clearly their rivals to the north. But the "hook of cold light" and the "Red Harvest" suggested that this conflict wouldn’t just be about territory. It was going to be a slaughter that would reshape the continent itself.

Across every corner of the continent claimed by the People of Björn, the sky bruised. A thick, oppressive red hue stained the clouds, and then the rain began to fall, not clear water, but a heavy, crimson liquid that carried the unmistakable, metallic tang of iron. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

As the droplets struck skin, it didn’t feel weird or stung, it felt like a baptism.

The "Grace of Björn" washed over the commoners in the fields, the smiths at their anvils, and the soldiers on the battlements. It was a divine signal, a primal call to arms that bypassed the mind and spoke directly to the blood. That ancient, hibernating madness, the berserker spirit that had been buried under years of peace and diplomacy began to stretch its limbs.

A low, collective hum seemed to rise from the very earth. Everyone could taste it on their tongues "War was no longer a political possibility, it was a physical certainty"

The atmosphere of the kingdom shifted in an instant. There was no panic, only a grim, rhythmic purpose filled with strange bubbling excitement. In villages and homesteads, men and women walked into their backyards and beneath the floorboards of their homes. They took up shovels and began to dig.

Metal struck wood as chests were unearthed. From the dirt, they pulled out heavy axes, broadswords, and serrated spears, relics of a more violent age that they had once left behind. As they wiped the soil from the cold steel, the weapons seemed to thrum in their hands, as if the iron itself was thirsty.

The whetstones were brought out. The sound of grinding metal filled the air, a discordant choir signaling the end of an era. The Björns were no longer farmers, traders, or diplomats. They were a pack, and their God had told them it was time to hunt. The "Red Harvest" was coming, and they would be the ones to reap it.

Back in the palace, the temperature in the great Hall spiked into a searing, dry heat that made the very air shimmer and distort. The stone floors began to crack, and the silver filigree on the pillars groaned as it started to liquefy and drip like tears.

From the shadows of the arched doorway, Leiko floated into the chamber. He drifted, buoyed by an aura of undulating heat. His face was a mask of ecstatic, terrifying frenzy. His eyes were no longer those of a man, but twin pits of flickering, hellish embers.

In his right hand, he loosely gripped the charred remains of a servant’s corpse. The body was already half-cinder, black smoke curling from the blackened ribs as the intense heat from Leiko’s grip consumed the last of the moisture in the flesh.

The Paragons shifted, their own energies flaring instinctively in response to the suffocating pressure Leiko was emitting. His demonic essence was no longer being suppressed, it leaked from his pores in dark, oily waves of pure bloodlust.

When he spoke, his voice was a discordant wreck, a guttural layering of a dozen different screams, distorted by the sheer volume of power surging through his vocal cords.

"Who is the enemy?"

The question wasn’t a request for information, it was a demand for a target. The "Grace of Björn" and the scent of the iron rain outside had acted like a match to Leiko’s volatile nature. He looked around the room, his gaze snagging on the melting metal and the bowed council members, his body vibrating with the need to unleash the furnace burning within him.

Yuki stood slowly from her throne, her own aura rising to counteract the blistering heat. She looked at her son, her eyes cold and steady.

"Patience, Leiko," she said, "The Silver Kingdom has drawn the first line. Your father has promised a Red Harvest. You will have more than enough to burn soon."

The air in the capital was a charged soup of adrenaline and strong need to slaughter. Yuki’s words were the only thing keeping Leiko from turning the palace into a pool of Lava.

The meetings were abandoned. No one could sit still long enough to discuss border logistics when the very rhythm of their hearts was pounding as fast as it did.

That night, the Great Colosseum, a massive structure that had sat as a silent, moss-covered relic of their bloody past roared back to life. It was overflowing.

Thousands gathered not for sport, but for release. Men and women threw themselves into the pits, seeking the impact of bone against bone.

The red rain added to eeriness of the red sand of the arena. Under the dying red hue of the sky, the sound of the crowd was a singular, low growl that shook the foundations of the city.

The celebration raged through the night and into the following dawn, but as the sun began to peek through the lingering iron-scented mist, the atmospheric tension shifted.

Yuki, standing on the high balcony of the palace, suddenly stiffened. In their own quaters, Olaf and Finn reached for their weapons instinctively.

Somewhere in the distance, a presence had ignited. It wasn’t trying to hide or sneak across the border, it was doing the exact opposite. It was a beacon of power, flashing with a rhythmic intensity designed to be seen by those with the eyes to perceive it. It was a signal calling to the Paragons of Björn.

And they responded. The space between the two realms buckled and folded, weaving into a stabilized pocket dimension, a neutral "gray zone" where the two powers could meet away from prying eyes.

As the fabric of the pocket stabilized, a figure manifested from a swirl of silver mist. The Paragons of Björn reacted upon seeing the figure, their whole body tense.

Standing before them was a Werewolf Paragon. He didn’t flinch at the display of bloodlust, instead, he wore a calm, almost apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes.

"I come bearing a letter from my King," the werewolf said, his voice smooth and steady. He raised his hands empty of weapons, showing he wasn’t there for the kill. "Due to... delicate circumstances, I could not afford to appear before the outside world. Words travel faster than the wind these days, and my presence in your capital would have ignited a fire neither of our nations is ready to manage. Hence, this clandestine meeting."

He gave a slight, respectful bow and produced a scroll sealed with the crest of the Great Wolf. With a flick of his wrist, the letter glided through the air, caught deftly by Yuki.

Yuki’s eyes moved rapidly across the parchment. As she read, the icy tension in her shoulders shifted. Her initial frown of suspicion deepened into one of grim realization. She finally understood the "hook of cold light" Björn had warned them about.

She handed the letter to Finn. He read it, his jaw tightening so hard his beard seemed to bristle, before passing it along to the other Paragons.

Olaf’s laughter was an ugly sound that cut through the silence of the pocket dimension. "So that was their game," he spat.

Yuki’s eyes remained fixed on the Werewolf Paragon, her expression as unreadable. "It is far too early to declare a loser, Olaf," she said, her voice cutting through his anger.

She looked at the messenger "Inform Wulv, that we appreciate his information. Tell him the People of Björn have received his message and are planning on responding accordingly."

The Werewolf Paragon didn’t miss the weight behind the word accordingly. It was a diplomat’s way of saying they would play along, but they wouldn’t be played. He maintained his composure, offering a final, shallow bow. "I am pleased to bring such great news to my King. May the stars guide your path, Lady Yuki."

With a shimmer of silver light, the werewolf vanished, his presence snapping out of existence as he returned to the icy expanse.

The pocket dimension immediately began to groan. Without the combined will of the Paragons to anchor it, the walls of the space started to fray and dissolve into the void. The familiar sky of their own kingdom began to bleed back into their vision.

"It’s time," Yuki said, her gaze turning toward the palace towers where the prince’s quarters were. The frenzy of the "Grace" was still humming in her veins, but she suppressed it with her will and status as a paragon "I have to speak with my son"