Lucien roared as he charged, his entire body screaming in protest. He could feel the weight of his wounds, the exhaustion clawing at his limbs, but he refused to stop.
Not yet.
Crystalline shards surged around him, forming jagged lances and serrated blades, but they were weaker now—unstable.He knew it.
And so did Char.
The moment Lucien lunged, Char moved. Effortless. Fluid. Lethal.
His burning blue tome, Author's Note, flared beside him, its ethereal pages fluttering. The powers of Crystalline Manipulation and Crimson Armor surged through his body like second nature.
Lucien's spear thrust forward—Char parried.Lucien's sword came next—Char shattered it.
The moment Lucien's foot hit the ground, another of his own crystal lances was driven through his shoulder.
His own power—turned against him.
He gasped, staggering back, but Char was already there.
A brutal roundhouse kick slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling across the cold stone floor. He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop in a mess of blood, dust, and shattered crystal.
Lucien tried to push himself up—his arms trembled. His vision swam. His head was pounding.
His crystal armor crumbled away. His once-imposing weapons shattered into useless shards at his feet.
And in that moment, he knew.
It was over.
His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, his hands barely catching himself from collapsing outright. His breathing was ragged, every inhale searing his lungs. His muscles screamed for respite.
And in front of him, Char stood victorious.
The stolen Crimson Armor flickered and faded away. His book of burning blue fire remained, its pages still turning slowly, as if the fight had been nothing but a footnote in its endless archive.
Lucien lifted his head, sweat and blood dripping down his face.
He hated the look in Char's eyes.
It wasn't triumph. It wasn't arrogance.
It was pity.
Lucien clenched his teeth, but his body was spent.
His people, his soldiers, his father's legacy—all of it had led to this moment. And still, he had failed.
His fists clenched weakly at his sides. His body wouldn't move.
And for the first time in his life—
Lucien Wolfsbane bowed his head in defeat
*
Char took a slow breath, steadying himself. His body was aching, his wounds screaming, but his mind was clear. He stepped toward Lucien, towering over the beaten Valkar chief, but there was no hatred in his eyes.
"You're not your father," Char said, voice firm yet steady. "And you're not Flint's pawn. You are Lucien Wolfsbane. A leader. A warrior. A son. A brother."
Lucien twitched at that last word, his breath still ragged, his fingers digging into the shattered ground beneath him.
"You think this is what Rhun wanted?" Char pressed. "For you to sell out your people? To betray your own blood?" His tone sharpened. "I don't care what lies Flint has been whispering in your ear. You know what the right choice is."
Lucien squeezed his eyes shut. His chest ached with shame. He could still hear his father's voice in his head, the words of wisdom he had tried to bury beneath ambition and pride.
But before he could reply—
Flint stepped forward.
The older man's voice was smooth, controlled, but there was a venomous bite beneath it.
"He's right, you know." Flint sneered. "You aren't your father. Rhun was weak. Hesitant. Soft." He spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself to an invisible audience. "But you? You have the strength to finish what he never could. This is your moment, Lucien. Rise up. Kill this outsider, and lead your people into the future they deserve!"
Lucien's breath hitched.
He knew Flint was manipulating him. He knew Flint saw him as nothing more than a pawn.
And yet…
Wasn't that what he had been fighting for? The chance to prove himself? The chance to lead?
His fingers twitched. His body screamed for him to stand, to fight, to reclaim the battle.
And then—
A small, broken sob cut through the night.
Lucien's eyes widened.
It was Selka.
She stood trembling, her small frame barely visible in the shadows where Flint held her captive. Tears streaked down her blue-tinted cheeks, her yellow eyes wide and glistening.
She wasn't afraid for herself.
She was afraid for him.
Her lip trembled as she whispered, "B-big brother… p-please… save me…"
Lucien's stomach dropped. His eyes instantly widened and he felt as if he'd been doused in freezing cold water. His very bones shivered, in fear and anger and realisation.
Even after everything. Even after the threats, the manipulation, the betrayal—she still saw him as her family. She still cared.
And in that moment, everything snapped into place.
Even though she hadn't even known they were siblings up until just hours ago, she was still calling him 'big brother'. She still looked to him to protect her and save her. After everything he'd done, she still cared.
Lucien shot up to his feet, faster than anyone expected. His body protested, but his mind was clearer than it had ever been. Bestial rage and illuminating clarity both shook his brain.
Char tensed, ready for another fight—
But Lucien wasn't aiming for him.
With a guttural snarl, Lucien lunged past Char, his crystalline blade reforming in his grip.
Flint barely had time to react.
Lucien grabbed his wrist, twisting it away from Selka's throat in a single fluid motion. His other hand—his blade hand—drove forward with all the fury of the Valkari.
The glowing blue spear plunged straight through Flint's chest.
The tip burst out from the other side, the entry wound just inches from Selka's head.
For a long, horrible second—everything froze.
Flint's breath hitched. His eyes went wide in pure disbelief. His lips parted, but no words came out. The bearded man's face began to go pale, as the life was visually being sapped out of his body.
Selka gasped, her body stiffening—
Then, with a cry, she tore herself free, scrambling away as Flint's grip slackened.
Lucien dug the blade in even deeper, then twisted it, before yanking it free in a spray of blood.
Flint staggered, his knees buckling. His hands hovered over the gaping wound in his chest, as if he could somehow force the life back into himself. His lower lip quivered, as if he was about to cry. Red veins popped out in his bulging eyes.
"You…" he rasped, voice wet and weak. "You… fool…"
Lucien's breathing was heavy, his body trembling from exhaustion.
But for the first time in a long, long time…
He felt free
As Flint's body swayed, his breath ragged and wet with blood, Selka broke into a sprint.
Lucien barely had time to react before she threw herself into his arms.
His legs nearly buckled under the impact, but he caught her—his little sister—his family.
Selka buried her face into his chest, her small body trembling. She clutched onto his torn tunic with desperate fingers, as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
"I thought—" She choked on her words, shaking her head furiously. "I thought you were g-gonna—"
Lucien's arms tightened around her.
"I'm here," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere."
She sniffled, nodding into his chest.
Lucien exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against the top of her white hair. He had nearly lost this. Nearly lost her.
And for what?
For pride? For a legacy of war that wasn't even his to uphold?
His fingers curled into fists against her back. Never again. He was just happy that, while he had done the unthinkable and had killed his own father, even if it wasn't on purpose, he still had some family left. Selka was already the most important person in his life now, and he would dedicate the rest of it to keeping her safe and keeping the whole settlement safe too.
It was the one way he could think of in order to apologise his father in any sort of way.
But just as relief settled into his chest—
A sickening gurgling sound snapped his attention back to the present.
Flint was still alive.
The man's body swayed, but his hand—shaking, bloodied—was gripping a dagger.
Lucien tensed, instinctively stepping back with Selka—
But before Flint could take even a single step—
Char was suddenly there.
His movements were silent, like a shadow slipping between the cracks of the world.
By the time Flint even noticed him, Char's fingers were already closing over his wrist.
For a moment, the two locked eyes.
Char's gaze was unreadable. Cold. Unforgiving.
Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, he spoke.
"This is for Benjamin."
With a single movement, he twisted Flint's wrist, prying the dagger from his failing grip with ease with his opposite hand.
Flint barely had time to blink before Char plunged the blade straight into his throat.
A strangled gasp. A sharp, wet choke.
Then—nothing.
Flint staggered, his body twitching for a second longer before his knees gave out.
His corpse collapsed into the dirt.
Lucien just stared.
Char stood there, looking down at the lifeless body with an unreadable expression. His grip on the bloodied dagger was steady—unshaken.
Then, with slow precision, he tossed the blade aside as all the energy left his body and his shoulders slumped.
The fight was over.
Flint was dead.
But Char didn't look relieved.
Just… tired.
And as the tension in the air began to unravel, Lucien felt a single, undeniable truth settle deep into his bones—
It was over. Finally, it was over.