The night sky burned red.
The ruins of the citadel lay in silence, its walls melted, its throne shattered, its king lying headless in a pool of steaming golden blood. Outside, the valley screamed with fire. The Nova Sanctum drifted above like a black star, its cannons flashing, tearing settlements into craters. Each impact shook the mountain, flames swallowing entire districts. The Lion King's nation was no more—it was ash, and the ash kept falling.
Lucian stood over Taragon's corpse. His chest rose and fell heavy, every breath dragging pain through his ribs. Blood streaked his arms, his cloak was gone, his skin burned raw, but he still stood tall. His golden eyes glowed faint through the smoke, sharper than the flames around him. In his hand, he still clutched the Lion King's severed head by its mane.
The ground cracked behind him. Two figures stepped through the rubble.
