The sky was raw with smoke and light. Bin stood with his sword raised, the edge of dawn catching on the blade. Around him the dome of dark energy had finally fallen. The battle would spill outward again. He took one slow breath, ready to end the fighting.
Then a sharp pain stabbed his back.
Bin stumbled forward. His hands went to the wound. His knees buckled. The Sword of Light slipped from his fingers and clanged to the stones.
He turned, shocked and weak. A masked figure stood a few paces away, dark cloak flapping. A thin, cruel blade glinted in the man's hand. The man's gait was calm, as if he had only taken a walk through the field.
"Who—" Bin tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth. The world blurred.
The masked man stepped closer, eyes cold and bright behind the mask. Before Bin could gather himself, the man lunged toward Malakar, blade raised.
Malakar turned, rage flaring, but in that instant Rigor was there. He came like wind, cutting the masked man's attack with a spray of wrist blades that flashed and spun. Rigor scooped Malakar up and shoved him back, covering his retreat.
"Move!" Rigor barked. He shoved the dark descendant away, then turned to meet the hidden man.
Julius, weak and bleeding from his own fight, scrambled forward with the last of his chains. He lashed them out fast and true, wrapping the stranger's legs and coiling up like a trap. The mask man cursed and struggled. For a moment it looked like Julius had captured him.
"Go!" Julius panted. "Get away while you can!"
Rigor seized Malakar's sleeve. He pulled him free and shoved him toward a safe direction. Malakar limped, carrying his wounds away. Rigor broke off to help Julius, then followed.
The masked man hissed, twisting in the chains. He pressed his blade against a gap and rasped, loosening the metal. He spoke through gritted teeth.
"Finally," he said, voice low and hard. "At last…"
Even as the others fled, the man tore the chain open. He snapped free like a fish from a net, his movements quick and precise. He turned to Bin, who lay on the ground weaker and dimmer than a dying candle.
Bin's breath came in staccato. "Why—who are you?" he managed.
The masked man pulled his hood back. His face was young, eyes burning with a calm fury.
"I am Kael," he said. "From Kedel."
Bin moved. He tried to push himself up.
"Stop denying it," Kael said. "You took everything. This ends now." He raised the blade.
The young man's words cut like ice. Bin's light dimmed. He tried to reach for his sword, but his fingers would not obey. The life in him ebbed like a thin light guttering in wind.
Around them, some Light soldiers still stirred, drawn by the clash of power. They saw the masked man and rushed forward, weapons raised.
Kael did not hesitate. He moved like a shadow that kills. The soldiers fell fast—sword strikes, tight thrusts, cold and clean. No pity. No mercy. The masked man cut them down in a flash. Their cries were brief and choked.
When the last soldier dropped, Kael looked at Bin again. The light in the Sword of Light slid from Bin's hand and floated up, like a firefly flying toward the sky. The glow rose, then scattered, vanishing into the clouds.
Bin lay still. His eyes were half closed. The life had gone from his face.
Kael turned and ran. He melted into the smoke and the ruins as if he had never been there.
---
A few breaths later, Hook blinked awake. The world swam into him. Pain throbbed in his head, and the memory of Rigor's stormed blades came back in flashing shards. He pushed himself up and felt the ground under his knees warm and wet.
He saw Bin on the ground a short way away. He saw the sword on the stone, its light gone. He saw dead soldiers scattered like broken toys.
"No..." Hook said, but his voice was a rasp.
He forced air into his lungs. Torn and bleeding, he focused. He gathered wind into his palms, fingers trembling. He spun his arms and called the storm he always kept in reserve.
A tornado of knives formed—blades swirling with wind, shining in the dawn. Hook hurled the whirling storm high into the air as a signal.
The sound of the tornado cut through the battlefield like a siren. From the ridgelines and tents, soldiers turned and ran fast. Light army runners came, shouting. They reached the field in a rush, faces pale, worry on their lips.
They surrounded Bin, lifting him. The medics worked quickly, checking his chest, his wounds. But the men who had come had seen too much. The life in Bin was already dim.
Word moved faster than any rider. The news spread like smoke through Aetheris: The protector is dead. Bin is dead. Whispered voices trembled. Markets fell silent. Mothers clutched their children and prayed.
"No light descendant," Jay breathed. "No one left to match the dark…"
He could not know everything. He did not know who had stabbed Bin. He only knew a hero lay still and that the world shrank a little more in that stillness.
Den knelt beside the fallen man, his fist pressed hard against the place where the wound lay, as if he could hold it closed with his palm.
The whisper grew: Bin died at Malakar's hands. It was an easy story for the fear-starved crowd. They needed a name to hate, a face to blame. The truth—hidden, clean, and terrible—was already running away in the dark with Kael.
Jay stood, shoulders hunched. He had helped save children that day, and yet his heart felt like a stone. If the protector is dead, what hope remains? he thought.
Around them, Aetheris grieved and feared. The war shifted. The night deepened. The hunter who struck from the mountain had vanished into the smoke. The world would not be the same.
And in the shadow-scarred fields, men cried, planned, and burned with new purpose. The fight would go on. The name Kael went unspoken far and wide—only that morning's horror remained, and a city that mourned a light it believed lost.