You knew it was coming.

From the moment the portal tore open like a wound and the earth trembled beneath Arcadia, something ancient had begun to breathe again.

But standing here—at the edge of the forest, where the trees grow so thick that even dawn can’t pierce them—knowing doesn't prepare you for the moment you actually see him.

He stumbles first.

A towering figure, hunched and dragging one arm through the underbrush like a corpse risen from mire. Armor hangs from him in jagged pieces, his shoulders cracked and lined with red molten veins. Smoke rises from his skin in thin, pulsing wisps.

Gunmar the Black.

The name vibrates inside your skull like a held note, thick and thrumming with history. With fear.

He emerges, breath ragged, claws sinking into the dirt as he forces himself upright. Every movement looks like agony, but he presses forward — step by lumbering step — until he breaks free from the treeline.

The forest ends here.

And beyond the field…

The sun is rising.

But not over him. Not yet.

You watch from your vantage point above — on the crumbled ridge, amulet dim but ready in your hand. The dawn bleeds gold over rooftops in the far distance, but the forest still holds the shadow tight like a shroud.

Gunmar lifts his head slowly, one eye flickering open.

Even drained, even damaged… his gaze could spear through bone. It lands on you instantly, like a bloodhound catching a scent.

“…So,” he growls, voice raw as if unused for centuries. “The Trollhunter still lives.”

Your grip tightens.

“And you,” you shoot back, “look like you clawed your way out of your own grave.”

He laughs—dry and halting, broken in the middle. “That… is not far from the truth.”

He takes another step. Then another. He’s still in the shadows.

But not for long.

A glimmer of sunlight begins to creep across the grass, inching closer, like it too fears him but cannot be stopped.

You can see him falter. Just slightly.

A hitch in the breath. A tightening of his eye. A twitch of scorched skin where sun almost kisses it.

He’s not ready.

Not yet.

Your mind races. Do you strike now, while he’s weak? End this before he regains his strength?

Or do you let him retreat, crawl deeper into the world like a splinter under skin—waiting for the infection to spread?

Gunmar’s eye drifts skyward. He sees it too. The light.

He snarls, low and defiant, and backs a step into the trees again, just out of reach. “Another time, Trollhunter.”

You hold your blade steady, but don’t move to follow.