Kael's crimson storm raged, but the gaunt commander pressed him mercilessly, pale fire burning away Kael's strength with every clash. Sparks lit the ruined square; stone split beneath their boots.
Darric and Lyra fought like wolves at the fringes, but even they could see it—Kael was being worn down.
The commander's voice was a blade in itself.
"You are nothing but Kaelen's remnant. A shadow. And shadows always vanish when the true light rises."
Kael's lips peeled back in a snarl, blood running from the corner of his mouth.
"I don't need light."
Ashrend pulsed. The blade bled with red lightning, the storm erupting outward. He swung in a wide, vicious arc—his Crimson Severance. The strike carved through three riders who had charged in, cleaving man and steel alike, before slamming into the commander's guard.
The commander staggered back for the first time, boots tearing grooves in the stone. His pale fire flickered under the weight of the blow.
Kael didn't stop. He pressed forward, each strike sharper, faster, fueled by a fury that burned deeper than exhaustion. Every swing was a vow to his fallen, every arc of red lightning a denial of fate itself.
The commander caught the last strike on his blade, but Kael twisted, letting Ashrend roar with black-red stormlight. The explosion sent both men skidding apart across the ruins.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the commander looked down at his blade—cracked, pale fire guttering. His eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in recognition.
"You carry a power that should not exist," he hissed. "If you are left to grow, you will rend thrones apart."
Kael raised Ashrend high, his voice thunder.
"Then remember this night. Remember the name Kael Rivenhart."
And with a final downward cleave, Ashrend's storm roared through the square. The commander vanished into the pale fire's retreat, his army breaking into smoke and fragments of flame.
The Ashen Crown was gone. But the echo of their vow remained.