The battlefield was smoke and ruin.
The trees of Elderhollow had long stopped whispering. Now, they only watched. Silent witnesses to power too old for the soil, too vast for the sky.
Vortan stood at the center cloaked in scorched air, wrapped in the residue of flame and void. His single eye gleamed. Not triumphant. Not afraid. Merely patient.
Rayan rose.
Slowly.
One hand pressed to his bleeding side, the other gripping the scorched hilt of his shadowfire blade. His breath was shallow, limbs trembling, body ravaged by the magic that had nearly torn him apart.
But still, he stood.
"You're still breathing?" Vortan asked, almost amused. "Stubborn... or foolish?"
Rayan didn't answer. He merely raised his blade again, though the weight of it seemed greater than any sword forged by men.
Before the final blow could fall, Orien stepped forward. His cloak torn, face streaked with ash, but his eyes alive with cold brilliance.
"You've had your moment, Rayan," he said calmly. "Now rest."
Rayan hesitated... then nodded. Just once. And collapsed to one knee.
Orien raised his hands.
The earth obeyed.
From the shattered field rose a dome of frozen force, laced with wind and memory. Magic older than language surged into his limbs, crackling with silver-white flame. The air screamed as Orien and Vortan collided again, spell against shadow, will against legend.
Steel rang. Frost met fire. The land cracked.
But behind them... Malrick stood still.
Eyes narrowed. Breathing steady.
And in that stillness, he remembered.
The serpent. Zayran's serpent.Its fangs.Its poison.Its whisper.
"You are the blade that was never drawn. But you will be."
He blinked.
And the memory became action.
Vortan roared, unleashing a pulse of flame so violent it tore open the sky. Orien's shield faltered. Rayan, weakened, threw himself forward. barely shielding them from the inferno.
And then…
Silence.
Orien looked up.
Rayan still stood, arms scorched, sword cracked, but alive.
Barely.
And then.....
The blade struck.
A real blade.
Not Vortan's.
Rayan stiffened.
A sharp, clean thrust between the ribs. Right side. Piercing heart.
He turned, slowly… trembling.
Behind him....
Malrick.
His black blade still buried in Rayan's back.
Eyes wide. Empty.
Expression unreadable.
Rayan stared at him. No fury. No betrayal.
Just a flicker of understanding.
"…It was you," Rayan whispered.
A breath.
A cough.
Blood on his lips.
He fell to one knee, the world tilting around him.
His voice cracked tired, but clear:
"Then I'm not sorry… for killing him."
Orien froze. "…Rayan?"
Rayan looked up at the sky. Soft now, pale with ash.
His last breath escaped in a whisper:
"I don't feel guilty anymore about killing my father"
And he collapsed.
Still.
Dead.
Orien screamed.
The forest echoed the sound, and even the ghosts of Elderhollow wept in silence.