The square still reeked of iron and smoke. Kael stood at its center, his sword heavy at his side, the corpses of the Black Host strewn like fallen shadows around him. The crimson glow of his eyes lingered even as his aura dimmed, a reminder of the storm that had just torn through the city.
He had won. Yet the silence mocked him.
His blade had sung with fury, each strike severing flesh and will alike, but the last look in the captain's eyes gnawed at him. Fear—not just of death, but of him.
Kael exhaled, his breath visible in the night air. "They'll call me a monster," he muttered under his breath. "And perhaps… they'd be right."
But the Sovereign's armies would not stop. And if he faltered now, his companions—his only tether to something human—would be swallowed by this war. That thought steadied him. With deliberate steps, Kael turned toward the path deeper into the city.
Far from the blood-soaked square, his companions moved under the same moonlight.
Serenya, her bow strung tight, guided the others through the half-collapsed alleys. Her eyes never stopped scanning the shadows, every flicker of movement pulling her bowstring taut.
Beside her, Darius carried his axe across his shoulders, his grin sharp and reckless even after hours of fighting. "I'd wager Kael's already carved a bloody trail straight to the Sovereign's lapdogs."
Elira, quieter than the others, pressed her hands to a wounded villager they had saved. Golden light pulsed from her palms, her healing wrapping torn flesh. "And if he has," she said softly, "then he'll need us to keep him from drowning in it."
The words hung heavy. Each of them had seen the darkness in Kael—the fury that burned too hot, the blade that cut too deep. They followed him not only because he led, but because without them, he might lose himself entirely.
A sudden clash of steel jolted them from thought. Shadows rushed from the rooftops—remnants of the Sovereign's soldiers, desperate and savage.
Serenya loosed an arrow, pinning one to the wall before he could strike. Darius laughed and swung his axe, cleaving through another in a single brutal arc. Even Elira, usually reserved, drew a short blade, her movements swift as she fought to defend the wounded they sheltered.
The companions fought with grit and fury—not Kael's overwhelming storm, but a flame that refused to be extinguished. And in their struggle, they began to carve their own legend.
Elsewhere, Kael paused on a ruined balcony, gazing toward the district where his companions battled. Though distance and stone lay between them, he felt them—faint threads of connection pulling him back from the abyss.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He whispered into the night, as if they could hear him across the chaos:
"Hold fast. I'm coming."
And with that, the Crimson Sovereign's heir stepped once more into the shadows of war, his path and his companions' paths drawing ever closer, destined to collide in fire and blood.