The valley of Veylor opened before Kael like the hollow of a broken jaw—scarred, vast, and soaked in the scent of impending war. The wind carried ash and whispers across the barren land, tugging at Kael's cloak like invisible hands trying to pull him back. Behind him, Selan stood silent, the Threnody Shard bound in a prism of warding glyphs etched in her blood and his.
The resistance—what remained of it—gathered in scattered clusters across the rocky terrain. Men, women, illusions, and ghosts. All of them waiting. Some knew they wouldn't survive the next day. A few already considered themselves dead.
Kael walked among them, no longer speaking in grand calls or strategies. He gave quiet nods. Touched shoulders. Saw in their eyes the final resolve of people who had given up everything.
At the edge of a cliff overlooking the approach from the east, Kael stopped. Far below, the Crown's army marched—a black tide of steel, banners, and consecrated war machines. They had brought siege beasts from the Western Expanse, engines of war powered by bound angels and cursed spirits. Magic shimmered around them like a second skin.
"They brought the whole faith," Selan said as she stepped beside him.
Kael didn't reply. His eyes traced the lead formation. A carriage of onyx and light floated at the center—undoubtedly bearing the Grand Theurge himself, the Voice of the Flame, the man who had ordered Asael's Vigil razed to the ground.
Selan stared at Kael. "You're quiet."
"Too much blood in the air," Kael replied. "Even silence screams."
That night, before the final battle, the resistance gathered in what remained of a ruined chapel—its roof torn, its altar scorched, yet the foundation still held. A fitting place for the broken.
Kael stood before them, the Eye of Varethos bound to his belt, cracked but faintly glowing. The Threnody Shard hovered at his side, silent and dangerous.
"I won't give you hope," he began, voice even. "Hope is a lie forged to make us tame. What I give you is choice. You can walk away now, and none here will fault you. But if you stay—if you fight beside me—know this: we do not fight for the world as it is, but for the world it refuses to become."
No one left.
Dawn.
The Crown's army made camp just beyond bow range. Their priests began rituals at first light—invocations of purification, of cleansing, of sanctified destruction.
Kael waited until the sun broke the horizon, blood-red and cruel.
Then he moved.
He led a vanguard of twenty through the winding ravines leading to the enemy's flank. Illusions of their full army danced along the ridges—Kael's mind had summoned them with perfect malice, an army of shadow-forms given shape by magic and madness.
Selan followed him closely, her blade wreathed in dark light. They didn't speak. Not anymore. Words were for those uncertain.
They reached the ridge above the Crown's command tent just as the first horns of war sounded.
Kael raised his scythe.
Blood magic screamed.
He launched downward, the earth fracturing beneath his feet from the force. His body became a crimson blur, scythe carving through armored knights like wheat before a storm. Selan followed, her strikes precise, her magic flaring in arcs of purple fire.
They reached the command tent.
Kael kicked through the layered wards, his magic unraveling them like parchment soaked in flame. Inside, robed figures turned, caught in the midst of spellcasting. A High Flamebearer screamed an incantation—too late.
Kael severed his head in a single motion.
Selan found the artifact powering the Crown's war engine—a crucified elemental, its soul forced into servitude—and shattered its bindings. The scream it released turned the sky momentarily black.
Then Kael saw him.
The Grand Theurge.
An old man in robes of white fire, his face serene as a sunrise. His hands dripped light. His eyes were golden voids.
"You've walked far, Kael of the Vigil," the Theurge said.
Kael raised the Threnody Shard.
"I'm not here to walk. I'm here to end it."
The Theurge lifted a hand. Light erupted.
Kael countered with blood. The valley shook.
They collided.
The Duel of Faith and Blood
Time bent around them. The Theurge hovered, wings of flame sprouting from his back, wielding divine fire. Kael danced below, weaving arcs of scythework and blood constructs, every strike reinforced by the Threnody's song.
The world faded. Only the duel remained.
The Theurge spoke ancient words, summoning memories of Kael's father, of Asael's Vigil. Visions meant to unmake him.
Kael smiled bitterly. "You think I haven't already unmade myself?"
He surged forward.
Their battle cracked mountains. Rivers changed course. Magic tore open the sky.
Selan and the others held the ridge, fighting off the swarm of Purifiers charging to protect their master. It was chaos. Fire and blood.
Kael began to win.
The Theurge faltered.
Then he invoked the Final Light—a suicidal burst of holy energy meant to erase all around him.
Kael lunged into it.
The Threnody Shard flared.
And he sang.
Not with voice—but with memory, pain, and rage.
The song pierced the light. The Shard vibrated until reality cracked. The Theurge screamed—not in pain, but in understanding. He saw, at the end, what Kael had become.
A god of his own making.
Kael struck.
The world collapsed inward.
Silence.
When the dust cleared, Kael stood alone atop the ridge.
The army below was in disarray—leaderless, broken. The war machines had stilled. The holy fire had gone dark.
Selan limped toward him. "Is it done?"
Kael looked at his hands.
The Shard had fused to his chest. The Eye had crumbled to dust.
"I don't know," he whispered. "But I'm still here."