Comhroinn Fuaime

Coldharbour did not sleep—it recoiled. The air there was not air, but will made dense: iron thought, chained longing, the quiet pressure of countless souls pressed into obedience. And at its center, upon a throne carved from broken vows, Molag Bal stirred. Not because he was threatened. Because he was reminded. A fracture in memory. A repetition of insult. “Again…” The word did not echo—it corrupted space as it passed. “Again there walks a mortal who refuses the shape of a leash.” He ros