Dusk's crimson glow spilled across Dystyx as Syrith's storm-forged army amassed at the foot of the Obsidian Spire. The sky crackled: clouds roiled with the promise of thunder, as though the very heavens bore witness to the coming assault. Lanterns lined the avenue, but their light flickered against the obsidian basalt, momentarily swallowed by the tower's oppressive shadow.
At the vanguard stood Syrith, Crown of Storms gleaming atop his brow, blade in hand, and at his flanks Averith—her violet aura pulsing like a heartbeat—and Roukhal, spear poised for conquest. Behind them stretched ranks of reformed Watchers, Iron District smiths wielding hammers, Crimson Covenant's former acolytes now turning their backs on the Mask, and citizens of Dystyx bearing torches of hope.
A rumble vibrated through the boulevard as the gates—massive panels of blackstone carved with Covenant runes—groaned in protest. Roukhal raised his spear in salute. "Forge-breakers, to the gates! Shield-wall, close ranks!"
The Iron craftsmen stormed forward, their reinforced shields flashing in the torchlight. They rammed the gates with battering hammers, every strike sending shockwaves across the plaza. Syrith raised his blade to the sky, summoning a swirl of storm-wind that lashed at the gates, fracturing the rune-inscriptions and weakening the ancient wards.
From the ramparts above, the first defenders appeared—Crimson Sentinels clad in scarlet robes, their masks glinting with the remains of broken rubies. They unleashed volleys of firebolt and shadow-magic, the air hissing as embers and darkness collided. Averith stepped forward, violet flame arcing from her palms to snuff out the firebolt strikes in flickers of luminous purity.
Roukhal vaulted onto a fallen battering ram, guiding the Ironsmiths' blow in perfect rhythm. The gates splintered inward with a thunderous crack, and the massed army surged through the breach like a rising tide of steel and determination.
Syrith led the charge into the Spire's antechamber. The walls here were slick with obsidian that oozed like living midnight; vaulted arches opened into twisting staircases and shadowed corridors. Torches along the walls burned with unnatural flame—half crimson, half black smoke—fuel for the Covenant's last defenses.
A chorus of chanting rose from above—Bloodcult Priests forming a spiral upon the central dais, preparing to enact a final sacrifice to call Velkyrion's full power down from the realms. In their midst lay an altar-stone, atop which burned the Heart-Brand Censer, its smoke weaving into the tower's shafts.
Syrith's voice rang clear: "Stop the ritual!" He burst forward, storm-fire igniting along his blade's edge. The Iron Guard and reformed Sentinels followed, hurling themselves at the chanting priests.
Averith darted to the left, her violet flames snaring two acolytes in a web of healing fire that incapacitated without harm. Roukhal charged the central spiral, spear blazing with storm-ether, cleaving through robed ranks to reach the censer's foot.
From an inner chamber, a deafening roar shook the Spire's foundations. The walls cracked—lightning lanced through the fissures—and Velkyrion emerged atop a shattered balcony, his Mask of Seven Bloods reforged upon his face, each ruby ablaze with the fury of centuries. His cloak billowed with shadow-wind, and in his gauntleted hand he bore the Scepter of Stars, a rod crackling with astral fire.
"So," he intoned, voice echoing like distant thunder. "The king returns to my despairing halls. You carry the Crown…but can you wield its true power?" He raised the scepter, summoning a storm of shadow-embers that swirled like a maelstrom.
Syrith met his gaze across the antechamber. "I carry every vow you shattered—and every soul you enslaved. Your reign ends tonight."
With a cry, he unleashed the Crown's full might: silver lightning arced from his blade into Velkyrion's storm-embers, clashing in a blinding cascade of power. The Scepter shattered in the god-killer's grasp, and shards of astral fire rained down.
Averith and Roukhal pressed in. Averith's violet spear of flame streaked through the cult's lingering dark magic, severing the bindings of the Heart-Brand Censer. Roukhal's spear found Velkyrion's side, drawing forth a howl of ancient anguish.
Velkyrion staggered, mask cracking around the central ruby. "You cannot unmake me," he snarled, reaching for the last vestiges of his power. But Syrith advanced, storm-fire coalescing into a blade of pure light that met the Mask's remnants, cracking each ruby in turn.
With a final, echoing crack, the Mask shattered, its rubies falling like tears across the floor. Velkyrion's true face—hollowed by centuries of betrayal—was revealed for a fleeting heartbeat before he collapsed, the fractured Crown of Storms's light enveloping him.
Silence fell. The chanting priests knelt in awe; the cultists dropped their weapons. In the aftermath, Syrith stood above the vanquished god-killer, his chest heaving, eyes alight with storm-might and mercy.
He sheathed his blade and reached down, gripping Velkyrion's arm. "Look upon your deeds," he commanded softly. "See the ruin you wrought."
Velkyrion's eyes flickered, remorse glinting in the embered depths. Then, as the Crown's light washed over him, he dissolved into motes of spent shadow—freed at last from the curse of the Seven Bloods.
A cry of triumph rose from the assembled army, and Syrith raised his sword to the sky. Lightning answered, splitting the Spire's vaulted ceiling and pouring sunlight through the gaping wound. Dystyx's skyline blazed with dawn, and in that radiant peace, Syrith Kaen Drexil reclaimed his crown, his vows reforged, and the realms stood free of the Mask's long shadow.