Chapter 20 – The God Within the Grief
The Stillness After the Storm
The battlefield was silent.
The trees were ash. The river ran backward, glowing faintly from the divine residue.
Seliora's body lay still in Eryndor's arms, her wings scattered like fading feathers of light.
"Don't fade…" he whispered, voice cracking. "Please."
But the light slipped between his fingers like water.
The Archon watched, sword lowered. For the first time in eternity, it felt something unfamiliar—hesitation.
"This… was not supposed to happen."
Eryndor raised his head, eyes void of color, his voice calm yet trembling with something ancient. "You killed her. Again."
The ground began to hum.
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The Breaking Point
The sigils beneath his skin flared open—no longer dormant, no longer gentle. They tore through his mortal flesh like fire escaping its cage.
His scream split the heavens.
Light bled from him in waves, gold and shadow intertwining, forming wings far grander than any Archon's—wings that shimmered with creation and destruction both.
Seliora's essence still lingered in him—the spark she had given—fueling his ascension.
The Archon raised its sword again, but its voice faltered. "Eryndor—stop this—"
But the fallen god had already risen.
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The God Returns
In that moment, every realm felt it.
The Pantheon froze. Temples cracked. The stars themselves dimmed.
Eryndor was no longer half anything. He was whole—Balance reborn.
And yet, grief tainted his aura. His tears fell as droplets of molten gold, burning the earth where they landed.
"I wanted peace," he said softly. "But you left me no choice."
He lifted his hand. Reality bent.
The Archon's sword dissolved into motes of light as divine energy wrapped around him like a storm unending.
The Archon fell to its knees—not from defeat, but from revelation. "So this is what we feared…"
Eryndor looked down, his gaze both merciful and terrible. "No. This is what you created."
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The Turning of the Sky
The heavens themselves split.
Half burned with blinding light, half swallowed by darkness, as Eryndor's power tried to restore the broken equilibrium between existence and void.
And in that storm of creation, a single whisper echoed—Seliora's fading voice from within his soul:
> "Don't lose yourself… not again…"
His power faltered, his godly light flickering with the weight of her plea.
Somewhere deep inside, the boy who once fetched water for villagers still fought to remain.
The Archon rose weakly. "If you still feel mercy, Eryndor… prove it. Spare this world."
The god of Balance hesitated—caught between vengeance and love.