The two heroes realized with horror that the Dark Lord's strength was not merely shadow or storm. It was something greater, something far older than mortal men could wield.
Lord Ashenkeep's heart sank as recognition dawned. The aura that surrounded the Dark Lord carried both the stillness of night and the brilliance of the stars. His breath caught in his chest.
This power… it is of the stars and the moon.
The truth carved through him like a blade. He thought, Could it be? Has he destroyed the Nations of Moon and Star?
Has he slaughtered their guardians and stolen their sacred gifts? If he now seeks the power of the Sun… then he means to rule every nation beneath eternal night.
But before he could voice his fear, a cruel laugh echoed through the battlefield.
The Dark Lord's eyes burned with fire, and though his lips did not move, his voice slithered directly into Ashenkeep's mind.
"You see it now, don't you?" he whispered inside the warrior's skull. "I walk with the power of heaven and night in my veins.
I did not need to burn the Nations of Moon and Star — no. I only needed to kill those who guarded their power. The guardians fell screaming, their light torn from them, and I drank deep of it.
Their deaths fed me. Their power became mine. And now… only the Sun remains."
Ashenkeep's fists tightened around his sword hilt until his gauntlets groaned. His comrades, his brothers and sisters who once protected the sacred flames — gone.
Their faces flashed before his eyes, memories of warriors who laughed around campfires, who shed blood for the light. Now they were ash, consumed by shadow. Rage surged through him, a storm of grief and fury.
With a roar, he charged. Steel clashed against shadow, each strike ringing like a funeral bell. Sparks erupted where his blade met the Dark Lord's weapon, a nightmare-forged sword that screamed with every movement.
For nearly an hour, Ashenkeep battled, refusing to yield even as his strength waned. His armor cracked, his breath grew ragged, but his resolve did not falter.
Lady Vega fought at his side, her flames burning bright against the storm. She hurled lances of fire, her golden eyes blazing as wings of flame erupted behind her.
Each spell carved back the dark, each word of power pushed against the tide. Yet for every flame she conjured, the storm devoured it. For every wound they struck, the Dark Lord healed.
They were strong — but he was stronger.
At last, the Dark Lord raised his hand. Black energy coiled around his fingers like vipers before lashing out. It struck Ashenkeep full in the chest, driving him to one knee.
The curse wormed into his mind, pressing, probing, commanding him to speak the secret he held — the location of the Sun's sacred power. His vision blurred, his body trembled. It would have been easy to yield. To let the secret slip. To surrender.
But Ashenkeep was no coward.
With one last surge of will, he broke the curse just long enough to cast a spell of his own. His voice thundered through the storm:
"Vega! Run! Take the Sun's power! Keep it from him — no matter the cost!"
Her golden eyes widened. "No—!" she screamed, but he silenced her with a look. The command of a comrade. The plea of a friend.
Lady Vega's heart cracked, but she obeyed. Fire burst beneath her feet as she took flight, streaking toward the hidden sanctuary where the Sun's essence had slept for centuries.
But the Dark Lord had foreseen this. His army swarmed from the shadows — legions of blackened soldiers, their armor etched with screaming faces, their weapons dripping with corrupted flame.
They moved as one, a tide of death, pursuing Vega with inhuman speed.
Ashenkeep roared, rising to intercept, his sword cleaving through the first wave.
But he was outnumbered, surrounded on every side. Then came the storm — a bolt of black lightning hurled from the Dark Lord's hand.
It split the sky, and when it struck, the ground trembled for miles. Dust swallowed the battlefield.
When it cleared, Ashenkeep lay broken, his armor shattered, his body unmoving.
From the distance, Lady Vega screamed his name, her cry echoing across the mountains. But she did not stop. She could not stop.
Tears blurred her vision as she reached the sacred chamber.
Ancient runes glowed faintly along the walls, the seal that had kept the Sun's essence safe for generations. With trembling hands, she whispered the incantations, her voice cracking under grief.
The runes split open, and within the chamber burned a sphere of golden fire — the Power of the Sun.
Its brilliance nearly blinded her, its heat seared her flesh, but she reached out and seized it.
It was heavy, unbearably heavy, as though she carried the weight of a star.
But she clutched it close, cradling it against her chest, whispering through her tears:
"I will not let you have it."
But when she turned, the shadows were already there.
The Dark Lord stepped into the chamber. His armor bled darkness, his eyes burning with unholy fire. The storm itself seemed to bow before him.
"You cannot run from your shadow," he said, his voice a cruel whisper. "Hand over the Sun's power. Join me, Lady Vega, and I will grant you eternity. Resist, and I will erase even the memory of your name."
Her body trembled, but her spirit did not break.
She raised her chin, her golden eyes blazing. "I would rather die a thousand deaths than kneel to you."
And then, with the last of her strength, she whispered words forbidden even among her people. Words of sacrifice.
She bound her very soul to the Sun's essence, sealing it with her life.
The world erupted.
Light tore through the chamber, brighter than any dawn. For ten long seconds, all creation was blind. Even the Dark Lord staggered, his storm recoiling, his voice silenced by the brilliance.
And then — silence.
When the light faded, Lady Vega's body lay lifeless on the cold stone. The Sun's power was gone, vanished into the ether, hidden where no shadow could reach.
The Dark Lord's fury split the heavens. With a howl of rage, he struck her body again and again until nothing remained.
But no amount of destruction could undo her sacrifice. She had stolen his prize from his grasp.
Breathing heavily, he turned to his armies. "The Sun's power is hidden," he growled. "But it cannot stay hidden forever."
From among his legions, he chose seven champions, pouring his essence into them. Their armor blackened, their eyes burned red, their voices became echoes of his own. They were no longer mere soldiers, but lieutenants of shadow — his Seven Dread Generals.
Then, with a cruel smile, he split his own soul into three fragments. Each fragment birthed a clone of himself, pale reflections but powerful enough to rule.
One was sent to dominate the fallen Moon Nation, another to enslave the Star Nation, and the last to seize the Sun Nation, scouring every temple and city for the hidden flame.
The true Dark Lord ascended to his throne — the Nation of Darkness, a land where light itself withered.
The world groaned beneath his rule.
With Lady Vega gone and Ashenkeep fallen, hope itself seemed to vanish. The people bent the knee to his armies, their spirits crushed.
Those who resisted were slaughtered, their bodies nailed to gates as warnings. Villages surrendered without fight, cities fell into silence, and despair spread like a plague.
In the hushed whispers of taverns, in the broken prayers of peasants, only one thought remained:
This is the end. There is no one left to save us.
To be continued