The battle had raged through the night, an unrelenting tempest of steel, fire, and screaming gods. Solmar—the once-untouchable heart of the Empire—now lay in ruin.
Ash drifted from the sky like snow. The great obsidian towers of the Imperial Palace were cracked and bleeding light, and the streets below were painted in shades of crimson and gold. The dawn, reluctant and cold, filtered through the smoke and fire, revealing the carnage in stark clarity. Blood—mortal and divine—stained marble and earth alike.
Kael stood atop the shattered steps of the palace, black robes trailing in the wind, outlined by the smoldering remnants of what had once been the Empire's pride. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, were fixed on the lone figure that remained amid the devastation.
Eryndor, the Shadow Serpent. The last Archon.
He stood alone amidst the wreckage, a pillar of divine resolve. His golden spear dug into the cracked stone beneath his feet, and though the bodies of his fallen kin surrounded him, his gaze did not waver. The celestial radiance that clung to him flickered like a dying star—brilliant, yet fading.
Kael took a slow breath, inhaling the heavy scent of smoke, blood, and finality. He gave a faint, almost amused smile.
"You're still standing. Impressive," he said, his voice smooth and venomous like silk dragged across steel.
Eryndor did not reply at first. His breath came slow, controlled. The shadows beneath his eyes were deep, yet his presence remained untouched by despair.
"I do not fight because I believe I will win," he said, voice quiet but resolute.
Kael arched a brow, his tone curious. "Then why fight at all?"
The Archon's eyes, radiant gold forged in celestial flame, met his without fear. "Because if I don't, this world is lost."
Kael chuckled softly, the sound echoing across the shattered courtyard. "How dramatic. But tell me—who decides what is truly lost?"
Before Eryndor could answer, Kael vanished.
The world tilted.
The air cracked.
Eryndor reacted without thought, instincts honed by centuries of battle guiding him. He spun, spear slicing through the air—
CLANG!
Kael's obsidian blade met the divine spear in a clash that shook the heavens.
The ground split open beneath them, shockwaves shattering marble and sending rubble spiraling into the sky. Time seemed to stretch—each movement magnified, each breath a battlefield.
They moved like shadows wrapped in lightning. Eryndor's spear blurred through arcs of light, countering, parrying, thrusting. Kael weaved through them with inhuman grace, his blade always one step ahead, cutting through angles others wouldn't even perceive.
Yet behind Eryndor's poise was weight. A fatigue not of the body, but of the soul.
He had watched the other Archons fall—one by one—each death a fracture in the world they had sworn to protect.
And yet, he remained. Because duty demanded it.
Because Kael could not be allowed to win.
Not without a fight.
"You wear your guilt like armor," Kael whispered as their weapons locked again. His eyes, glowing faintly with abyssal power, narrowed. "But that armor cracks, Serpent."
Eryndor said nothing. Words were for those who still believed they could convince the darkness.
Kael stepped in, too fast to follow. A whisper fell from his lips—a word of power, older than time, shaped from the raw matter of the void.
The air turned black. Reality pulsed.
A shockwave of dark magic burst from Kael's form, rippling through the battlefield like a detonation of silence.
Eryndor staggered.
His vision blurred, gold fracturing into white and shadow. His armor—divine and once thought unbreakable—began to crack along the seams, light bleeding from the wounds.
Kael's voice was colder than the void. "The light is weak. You should never have stepped into my domain."
He surged forward.
A slash cleaved through Eryndor's defenses.
The Archon flew backwards, crashing through stone pillars before hitting the ground with an impact that left a crater.
Blood, radiant and impossibly pure, spilled from his lips. He coughed, gasping, hands shaking as he tried to rise. His spear flickered beside him, almost weightless now.
Still, he stood.
Broken, bleeding—but unyielding.
"You don't stop," Kael said, more intrigued than impressed as he approached. "Stubborn till the end."
"I... don't stop," Eryndor whispered, raising his spear one final time, "because someone must stand between you and the heavens."
Kael's blade lowered. Not out of respect—but inevitability.
"You fought well," he said simply. "But this is where it ends."
He lifted his sword, black energy spiraling around it in twisting tendrils.
Then—
The world paused.
A whisper, like breath across water, swept through the air.
Kael's body froze mid-strike.
Time slowed.
Above them, the sky shimmered. A golden sigil burned into the firmament, massive and intricate, radiating divine authority that made the very earth tremble. The sun dimmed before it.
Something—someone—was watching.
Kael's eyes narrowed. That sigil bore the unmistakable presence of the Archons' progenitor—the High Divinity of Order.
"So," he murmured, lowering his blade. "The real players have begun to move."
Reality rippled.
A beam of radiant energy descended from the heavens and enveloped Eryndor's crumpled form. In a heartbeat, he vanished—taken, rescued, or perhaps preserved.
Kael stared at the fading light for a moment longer.
Then, he exhaled.
"Cowards," he said softly. Not out of rage—out of calculation. "Even the heavens are afraid to see how this ends."
He turned back toward the palace.
Hours Later
The fires still burned. Smoke curled toward the ashen skies.
Solmar, the greatest capital of men, lay broken at his feet.
The people had gathered—what few remained. Nobles in tattered silks, soldiers leaning on shattered blades, commoners clutching children. Bloodied, burned, battered—yet all eyes looked upward, toward the steps of the palace where Kael stood.
The man who had slain gods.
The one who now wore the Empire not as a crown—but as a collar on a leash he dragged behind him.
Kael stepped forward, silent.
He looked over the crowd. There was no joy in their expressions. No triumph. Only awe—and terror.
Selene emerged beside him, her once-shining armor now stained with divine ichor. Her dark hair was matted, her expression unreadable.
"You killed the Archons," she said quietly.
Kael didn't look at her. "No," he replied. "I revealed their limits. They ran."
She studied him. "You've changed. Since the beginning."
He finally glanced her way. "No, Selene. The world has. I've simply adapted."
They both looked over the kneeling masses.
Selene asked, "What now?"
Kael's smile was slow, razor-sharp.
"Now?" he echoed. "Now we prepare for the real war."
He looked up at the sky where the divine sigil had vanished.
"The heavens have made their move," he said. "Now… it's my turn."
To be continued...