The roar of steel-on-steel split the void.
Kael was a blur of crimson flame and black lightning, his blade cleaving the air with feral precision. Each swing met resistance—not just of steel, but of memory, of destiny itself. The Sovereign Echo was faster, more refined, every movement honed by an ancient fury. It wasn't just fighting Kael.
It was judging him.
"You are a flicker," the Echo snarled, parrying Kael's downward slash and driving a knee into his chest. Kael stumbled back, coughing blood, but didn't fall.
"You are not the first to wear the Brand."
Kael spat onto the stone. "Then let me be the last."
He surged forward.
"Crimson Art: Veinbreaker!"
His blade shimmered red, then shattered into a storm of flame-wreathed fragments, each fragment launching toward the Echo like seeking daggers. The Sovereign raised a palm—"Ashen Shield"—and blocked most, but one shard slipped through, cutting a red line across the Echo's cheek.
His smile faded.
"I see now," the Echo said coldly. "You are not merely a shadow of me."
"I'm not you at all."
Kael reformed his blade and charged again. This time, he wasn't alone.
Pyra screamed, "Flarewave!" and hurled a column of flame toward the edge of the chamber, sweeping aside a second wave of Forgotten Kin who had begun to rise.
Darric slammed his shield into the ground—"Runeguard Stance!"—casting a protective barrier around Isryn as she weaved a spell of unraveling.
Lyra's arrows sang—sharp, quick, disrupting the echoes that tried to flank Kael while he fought the Sovereign Echo alone in the heart of the arena.
Kael ducked under a flaming halberd and brought his sword up into a rising arc.
"Crimson Art: Sovereign Rend!"
A great crescent of blood-red energy exploded from his blade, catching the Echo mid-dash. The figure twisted—but it was too late.
The energy tore through the Echo's chest.
He stumbled, coughing smoke, fire bleeding from the wound.
Kael stood over him now. Breathing hard. A flicker of pain danced in his eyes—but it was pride that held him upright.
The Sovereign Echo… smiled.
"You may yet defy what I could not…"
He raised one hand—and dissolved into embers.
A silence followed, thick and raw. The chamber pulsed once with red light—and then all of the Forgotten Kin dropped, their armors clanging against the floor, inert once more.
The mist pulled back, revealing the path ahead.
At its end stood a gate of black stone, carved with symbols older than the kingdoms. Symbols Kael had begun to understand.
Darric stepped beside him. "That… was you, wasn't it? Or who you were supposed to become."
Kael nodded, then looked down at his sword—its edge still glowing with remnants of the Echo's fire.
"I don't need a throne," he said softly. "But I'll take their strength… to forge my own path."
Isryn tilted her head. "You've crossed a threshold, Kael."
He looked toward the gate.
"No. We all have."
And with that, they moved forward—toward the heart of the Ashen Marches, and the Oracle that waited beyond the veil.