The clash between Kael and the Sovereign tore the sky apart. Crimson lightning and white fire clashed above the ruins, each strike a cataclysm that bent the air and split the stone.
But far from the epicenter, those who had fought beside him were left to watch—and endure.
Lyra stood at the edge of the broken plain, her bow unstrung, hands trembling around the scorched wood. Her vision blurred from heat and smoke, but her heart locked on one truth: Kael hadn't faltered. Not once.
"He's… still standing," she whispered, half to herself, half to the gods that never answered her. Her throat was raw from smoke, but her eyes glimmered—equal parts fear and faith.
Darric drove his blade into the ground, using it to steady himself as the shockwaves battered the plain. Each wave made his knees buckle, but he forced himself upright, eyes fixed on the battle above.
"That's no man's fight," he muttered. "That's… something beyond all of us." Yet his hand never left his hilt. If Kael needed them, even against the impossible, he would move.
Serenya, cloak shredded and eyes blazing with frost, raised both palms against the cascading heat. Shards of ice blossomed in the air, melting instantly but buying them precious moments of breath. "You fools," she hissed at Kael's silhouette in the blaze, though her voice cracked. "Why must you burn yourself for us?" Yet even as her lips trembled, her magic gathered, ready to throw every last shard of herself into his flame if the tide turned.
Revan, silent as ever, stood a little apart. His blade rested at his shoulder, face unreadable beneath his hood. But in the reflection of his eyes, Kael's lightning raged. His grip on his sword tightened, veins standing out along his arm. For the first time, his voice broke the silence: "If he falls, so do we."
The Sovereign's court, still reeling miles away, felt the quake of the clash as well. In the great obsidian halls, nobles whispered in fear, ministers scrambled to rewrite their allegiance in whispers. The power that thundered across the land carried a truth undeniable—Kael Rivenhart was no longer a nameless rebel.
He was a rival.
And that terrified them more than the Sovereign himself.
Back on the battlefield, Lyra forced her legs to move, stumbling closer to the firestorm. She raised her voice, ragged but unwavering:
"Kael! We're still here! Don't you dare fall alone!"
Her cry carried into the blaze, and for a heartbeat—the crimson lightning flickered brighter, as if answering.