The Executioner's form lay broken, armor scattered across the marble floor like discarded bones. The helm had crumbled to dust, revealing only emptiness within.
Kaelen stood alone in the ruin, staff planted before him. His chest heaved, every breath a war. His body was cracked with the toll of the forbidden magic, but he remained upright.
Arcturus dragged himself upright, leaning on his spear, blood staining his surcoat. His eyes met Kaelen's across the devastation.
"Heretic," he rasped. There was no venom in the word, only acknowledgment.
Kaelen smiled faintly, though his face was pale. "Knight."
Around them, the Sovereign lords began to stir, their gilded masks lying shattered in the dust. Murmurs rose—fearful, uncertain. For the first time, they had seen their executioner defeated.
The order they had built upon chains was gone.
Kaelen turned, sweeping his gaze across the wreckage. "This Court is not the end," he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the whispers. "It is the beginning. And from its ashes, the world will decide for itself whether to stand free… or bind itself again."
His words lingered like a curse, like a prophecy.
And as the storm raged outside the broken dome, the Sovereign Court—once the unshakable heart of the realm—lay in ruin.