The torchlight from Exile’s Reach still clings to my cloak as I stepped through the mountain pass and into a new sky. Today felt like stepping off a ledge I’d been circling for ages—Darkmaul Citadel’s shadow was enough to make my teeth ache, and yet I walked in pleased, not afraid. Esmegma rode at my side when we breached the citadel; together we pushed past ogre wards and found how deep the corruption ran. I slew Tunk and stood against Kalecgos as that terrible ritual writhed toward completion. When the final echo faded, I felt it: level 10. A small, satisfied laugh escaped me — level 10 at last — and the shadow answered with a warmth that tasted like promise.
Between camp jobs and cutting down harpies we shoveled out, I learned to bend life to my will in new ways. I crafted my first Healthstones, tethered a Voidwalker to my cause, and felt the pull of Fel Domination and Master Demonologist settle into my hands. I picked a specialty, too — no more dabbling. The Waking Shores opened before me with drakes on the horizon and a hundred reasons to press onward. My hearth is set; my path is clear. Tomorrow I hunt proto-dragons.