The battlefield was a graveyard of gods.
Kael stood at its heart, his cloak torn, blood soaking the leather of his gauntlets. The storm overhead had stilled, as if the sky itself waited to see how this tale would end. Around him, the corpses of rebels and royal knights mingled like broken chess pieces in a war no longer dictated by kings.
Across the shattered temple square, Aelric knelt, coughing blood, the Crown of Ivaros clutched in his trembling hand.
"You don't understand, Kael," he spat, crimson painting his lips. "This crown... it holds the voice of the First Flame. It showed me what must be done. You're not the savior—you're the sword meant to clear the path."
Kael walked forward slowly, each step echoing like thunder. The demon mark along his arm pulsed with dark fire, but his eyes burned with something fiercer: purpose.
"I'm done being someone else's blade," he said quietly. "I make my own path now. No gods. No crowns. Just choice."
Aelric laughed bitterly. "You think you're free? You were born of curse and prophecy. You are bound to the ruin you carry."
Kael's sword slid from its sheath, humming with voidlight. The rune of the Abandoned flickered along its edge, resonating with something old—something final.
He didn't hesitate.
With a roar that tore through the silence, Kael surged forward. Their blades clashed, sparks dancing like dying stars. Aelric fought with desperate fury, but Kael was no longer the orphan, the exile, the forgotten bastard of a broken house. He was fire. He was vengeance. He was truth carved in flesh.
The duel lasted only moments.
In the end, Kael disarmed him, drove his blade through the crown and into Aelric's chest. The artifact cracked, a howl of ancient energy screaming into the night as light burst from the wound.
Aelric's body crumbled to ash.
The crown turned to dust.
And silence fell.
Behind Kael, Iris stepped forward, bloodied but alive. Her eyes met his—proud, sad, hopeful. Vaerin limped after her, dragging a wounded leg but grinning like a man who knew they'd done the impossible.
"It's over," she whispered.
Kael looked down at his hands. The mark of the Abandoned had stopped glowing. For the first time in his life, he felt free.
But freedom was not peace.
He turned toward the temple ruins where the people of Ivaros—rebels, children, survivors—watched in awe. They had no king. No gods. Only the man who stood before them, sword in hand, shadowed by everything he had lost to get here.
Kael raised the blade—not as a conqueror, but as a reminder.
"No more crowns," he said. "We rise together. Or not at all."
The crowd erupted—not with cheers, but with a silence heavier than any anthem. A silence born of fear, respect, and belief.
As the sun broke through the ash-filled clouds, Kael sheathed his sword, turned away from the ruined throne, and walked into the dawn with his companions.
There were still enemies in the world.
Still monsters to face.
But for the first time in centuries, Ivaros would rise—not by the will of kings or the blood of gods—but by the hand of the abandoned.
🩸 THE END