The battle raged like a storm made of sorrow. Across the fractured plain of shadows, Caelen moved through blood and silence, the Weeping Blade a dull flicker in his hand. Hollows poured from the void, their forms unceasing, their hunger endless. Above them, Eredan-Mir loomed like a wound in the sky, his presence a crushing silence.
Elira fought beside Caelen, but her steps were slower now, her fire dimmer. Every motion cost her more, every breath came harder. Caelen could feel it through the bond they shared—her strength, her fear, her love. And all the while, his curse howled with Aerthalin's agony.
The memories surged: Hearthollow burning. A boy with no tears. The healer turned monster. The village woman who believed in him until her dying breath. The river of names. The pain of thousands screamed inside him. Their sorrow became his marrow.
He fell to his knees.
"I can't…" he gasped, his voice fraying. "It's too much."
From above, Eredan-Mir's voice fell like a blade of ice. "You were never meant to carry it. Let go, Ashbound. Join me in the silence."
But Elira was there—bloodied, panting, radiant despite the fading glow in her eyes. She grabbed Caelen's arm, her grip fierce.
"You don't get to give up," she snapped. "Not after everything. Not now."
Tears burned Caelen's eyes. His chest ached with more than just pain—it ached with meaning. With the weight of love, of failure, of everything left unspoken. And in that pain, he found clarity.
"I can take it," he said, breath trembling. "All of it. Every scream, every scar. I can carry it… I have to."
Elira's expression twisted in terror. "No—Caelen, please! If you open to that much pain, it'll kill you!"
He reached up, brushing her cheek with a touch that barely held strength.
"I love you," he whispered. "You gave me light when I was drowning. Now let me carry this… for all of us."
She shook her head, tears spilling, lips quivering. "Don't leave me…"
But it was already happening.
Caelen opened himself.
To the screams of the lost. To the weight of the broken. To Aerthalin's centuries of grief. He became the pain, became its vessel—and in doing so, became its master.
The Weeping Blade flared white-hot in his grip. His body shook, his voice tore through the void in a cry that was not just pain, but defiance.
The Hollows staggered. The ground split. The sky bled light.
Eredan-Mir recoiled, his eyes narrowing for the first time. "What have you done?" he snarled, voice fraying at the edges.
Caelen rose, every breath agony, every heartbeat a hammer against fate.
"I've become what you fear," he said. "A heart that feels everything."
He turned to Elira, her face radiant with grief and awe.
"You're still here," she whispered.
He nodded. "I won't leave. Not until it ends."
And so, together, they turned toward the final gate—not as warriors untouched by sorrow, but as souls who had embraced it.
Let the world tremble.
They would not break.