Eòin lowered his glaive, the rain washing away the mud and blood that clung to its edge. He looked downstream, where the river now wound peacefully through the valley, its surface a mirror to the darkening sky. The water’s roar had softened to a gentle murmur, as if the spirit of the River‑Wyrm had been pacified, its rage turned into reverence.
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The river below him was no longer a gentle ribbon of silver. It had become a torrent—an unyielding surge of water that swallowed everything in its path. The bridge, ancient as the hills themselves, groaned under the strain, its stones shifting like the bones of an old beast. Downstream, the small hamlet of Gleann Eòlaich lay in the flood’s path, its thatched roofs trembling as the water thumped against them like a drumbeat of war. Eòin lowered his glaive, the rain washing away