In the distance, the Purple Stone Tribe appeared on the horizon.
Serala recognized the crimson-blue walls first, that strange defensive barrier pulsing with Mana she could sense even from this altitude. The Roaring Stone Mountain rose behind it, massive and ancient and somehow different from when she had last seen it.
There was also the mountain he raised himself that also seemed taller. More alive, perhaps. More connected to the young man whose beast form she rode upon.
But something else caught her attention.
Groups of people were arriving near the tribe. Not dozens. Not hundreds. Thousands of figures moved across the plains in long columns, converging on those walls like streams flowing toward a river. From this height, they looked like ants, but Serala knew what they truly were.
Dross who had lost their homes.
Refugees from tribes trampled by the Primal Surge.
Many of them had watched their families die.
