The canyon burned like a wound in the earth.
Nightwatch banners smoldered on the ground, slick with blood and mud. Screams split the storm as brother turned against brother, their blades flashing in the crimson light of betrayal. The Hollow Flame's corruption slithered like venom through Selene's ranks, twisting loyalty into treachery.
Selene moved through the chaos like a phantom wreathed in silver fire. Her dagger sang in her grip, slicing through the throats of traitors whose eyes burned black with spellfire. Each kill seared her soul—these were her soldiers, her people—but hesitation was death, and there was no room for mercy in Malrik's war.
"Hold the eastern flank!" Eryndor roared, his axe cleaving through two men at once. Rain slicked his braids, blood streaking his armor, but his fury burned undimmed.
Selene pivoted, her instincts screaming. A shadow lunged at her from behind—a soldier she had known since childhood, his face twisted in malice not his own. She drove her blade through his chest, her breath hitching as his body fell into the mud.
A scream tore from her throat—not out of grief, but rage so raw it tasted like iron. Flames erupted from her skin, fanning into wings of molten silver that scorched the ground where she stood.
The Hollow Flame assassins faltered, their laughter dying as her power flared like a second sun. Selene raised her hand, and the storm bent to her will. Lightning carved through the darkness, spearing traitors where they stood. The earth shook, splitting into molten veins that swallowed the corrupted whole.
And then came him.
Kieran.
He strode through the carnage like a god wrought in fire and shadow, his golden eyes blazing, his blade a living sun in the storm. Every swing split bodies and shattered steel, his rage echoing in the clash of thunder. His Drakon swooped overhead, spewing torrents of flame that turned the ridges into pyres.
Selene's breath hitched—not out of fear, but because he was beautiful in his fury. Beautiful and terrifying.
When the last traitor fell screaming into the abyss, silence swallowed the canyon—broken only by the hiss of rain against charred flesh. Smoke curled in the air, mingling with the stench of death.
Selene dropped to one knee, her body trembling from the magic she'd unleashed. Blood slicked her gloves, her hair plastered to her face.
Kieran was there in an instant, pulling her up, his grip like iron. His voice was a rasp of fire and steel. "You're bleeding."
"It's not mine," she whispered. Her silver eyes met his, raw and burning. "He's in my head, Kieran. Malrik. He spoke to me during the fight."
Kieran's jaw clenched. "What did he say?"
Her fingers curled around his wrist, nails biting into his skin. "He knows we're coming. And he wants me to come. He said Rael leads his crown."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Kieran's breath left him in a slow, lethal exhale.
"We move now," he said, his voice low, unyielding. "Before he buries his claws deeper into that boy's soul."
Selene nodded, her heart a drumbeat of war. "Rally the survivors. We ride for the Chasm."
As the army reformed—ragged, blood-soaked, but unbroken—Selene turned her gaze toward the east, where black lightning writhed over the horizon like veins of death. Somewhere beyond that storm, her son stood crowned in chains, and Malrik waited with his blade poised over the world.
She whispered a vow to the storm, her voice a blade of its own:
"You took my child, Malrik. Now I'll take everything from you."
And with that, the queen who had once been flame-born mounted her Drakon, her silver wings flaring as the army thundered into the night—a tide of fire racing toward the mouth of hell.
Far beyond the mountains, in the heart of the Blackstone Chasm, Rael opened his eyes. Chains rattled in the darkness, and the last piece of his soul whispered a single word:
Mother.