The corpses of the fallen—Voidspawn and soldiers alike—littered the ground, reminders of the storm that had just passed. The air was heavy with iron and smoke, the silence broken only by the crackle of dying flames.
Kael sat with Ashrend planted in the ground before him, its blade faintly glowing, like embers refusing to die. His aura had finally receded, though his body still trembled from the strain. He said nothing, his crimson eyes focused on the horizon, as if already seeing battles yet to come.
It was his companions who carried the moment.
Lyra broke the silence first. She lowered her bow, her expression hard, though her hands shook slightly as she inspected the bowstring for cracks. "We survived… but only because Kael went beyond himself again." She glanced at him, concern flashing in her eyes. "How many times can you keep burning like this before there's nothing left?"
Kael didn't answer. He couldn't—not yet.
Darric dropped heavily onto a rock beside him, resting his battered greatsword across his knees. His armor was scored with deep gashes, dented from the knight's blows. "You talk like he's doing this for himself," he said gruffly. "He's carrying us. Carrying everyone. That weight would crush any of us, but him? He makes it look like destiny."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "And destiny kills."
The words lingered, heavy, until Isryn finally spoke. The mage knelt near Kael, her hands glowing faintly as she checked him for wounds. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "He's walking the razor's edge. But the mark chose him… and none of us were chosen. We can only decide if we'll stand at his side—or watch him burn alone."
Kael closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. Their words cut through the fog of fatigue more deeply than any blade. He looked at them—these people who had fought through hell beside him, who questioned him, challenged him, and yet never abandoned him.
"You're wrong about one thing," Kael said finally, voice hoarse. "The mark didn't just choose me. It chose all of us—because I'd never have survived this long without you."
The silence broke. Lyra's frown softened, Darric smirked with grim pride, and Isryn allowed herself the faintest of smiles.
For a while, they sat together amid the ruins, sharing the quiet. The bonds forged in battle needed no words.
Then Darric stood, brushing dirt and blood from his armor. "Enough brooding. We've still got ground to cover before the next wave comes. And Kael—" He looked at him with a sharp grin. "Next time, save a few of those fancy moves for me. You're making the rest of us look bad."
Kael almost smiled. Almost.
They gathered what they could from the field—supplies, weapons, anything usable. Lyra scouted ahead, moving with silent precision. Darric took point, broad shoulders like a shield against the unknown. Isryn's wards glimmered faintly as she walked, a constant hum of protection.
Kael trailed just behind, Ashrend slung across his back, the Crimson Mark faintly glowing beneath his armor. He watched his companions, felt the rhythm of their steps, the unspoken unity of their presence. They weren't soldiers—they were more than that. They were fragments of his soul, bound by fire and blood.
And in that moment, Kael understood: his strength wasn't in the mark alone. It was in them.
But the road ahead stretched long and dark. Already, he felt the Sovereign courts stirring, their eyes fixed on him. Already, whispers of his awakening were spreading through the kingdoms, carried like wildfire.