The first of the Deadbound breached the gates.
Velmira screamed.
The city's inner bells rang with a fury not heard since the Siege of Ashfall. Civilians rushed for the sanctum tunnels, while every able-bodied soul—blacksmiths, squires, cooks, monks—took up arms in defense of the last living stronghold between the Free Cities and oblivion.
Above it all, the sky churned with shadow. The Death-Wyvern circled low, its rider cloaked in ancient dread. The soulbrand across its chest pulsed like a heartbeat from the grave.
Kael arrived at the breach.
And the wind stopped.
Elira stood beside him, twin daggers flickering with light drawn from the Cathedral's last emberstone. Her voice was breathless.
"What… is that sword?"
Kael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The blade he carried was forged not by hands, but by choices—his pain, his sacrifice, and the part of himself he'd buried when his brother died.
Now, it pulsed with soulflame—blue and silver, dancing along the edges like frostfire.
The shadow-army halted at the sight of him.
And then… it bowed.
The General of the Grave
From the sky, the rider descended.
Its armor was boneplate, ancient and engraved with languages no tongue had spoken in a thousand years. Its helm fell away—and Kael's blood ran cold.
"Theren," he whispered. "It can't be."
Elira looked between them, confused. "Who is he?"
Kael's grip tightened. "My brother."
The one who'd fallen in the Siege of Hollowmere. The one Kael buried himself.
But this… thing… was not Theren. Not anymore.
"Brother," the corpse spoke. Its voice was wet with decay and threaded with malice. "You took the Crown's gift. I took its price."
Kael took a slow step forward. "You chose this?"
Theren grinned, revealing teeth like knives. "I chose truth. The gods abandoned us, Kael. The Crown showed me the power beneath the veil. And now, I am its hand."
Kael lifted the soulflame blade.
"And I am its reckoning."
Clash of Blood and Binding
The first blow cracked the cobblestones.
Shadow met soulfire—screams echoed as the force of the impact knocked both armies back.
Theren fought like a revenant god, moving with inhuman precision and wrath. Each swing of his boneblade summoned the spirits of the slain, who lunged at Kael with shrieking fury.
But Kael was faster.
Sharper.
He moved like wind over steel—cutting, dodging, parrying. The blade he wielded was more than a weapon. It was him. It remembered.
And it refused to lose.
"You still fight like Father," Theren sneered as he twisted his blade.
Kael's gaze never wavered. "Then let me remind you how he died."
With a cry, Kael drove his blade deep into the soulbrand at Theren's chest. Light erupted—blinding, burning, cleansing. Theren shrieked as the magic rejected him, tore through the bindings of undeath.
And for one breathless moment, Kael saw his brother's true face beneath the decay—eyes filled with regret.
"I'm sorry," Theren whispered.
And then, he was gone.
The Silence After
The Deadbound fell where they stood. All of them. Their soulbrands cracked like ice, releasing the imprisoned wills within.
Across the plains, silence reigned.
Kael stood alone in the ashes, his blade dim now—its flame dormant, resting.
Elira approached, her face streaked with soot and tears.
"You did it," she said softly.
Kael shook his head. "No. We did."
But inside, he knew something had changed.
The Well had taken part of him. Maybe forever.
He was no longer just Kael. Not the farm boy. Not the soldier. Not even the prince.
He was something… else now.
And the Crown?
The Crown was watching.