The villagers of Velgrad never spoke of Bald Mountain. Not since the old stories—of wings like shadow, and eyes like fire—had faded into fearful silence.
But silence doesn’t hold forever.
One night, the ground shook. Candles went out. The children dreamed of a dark god calling their names. Animals died without wounds, their eyes fixed on the peak.
Then came the eclipse.
The mountain split open—not with fire, but with a scream.
And from the ash and smoke, Chernabog rose again, unfolding his wings across the stars.
