The sky continued to blaze.
The ashes dropped silently, gently, on a dead landscape — giants, beasts, warriors shattered all alike. The ground was split wide open, gold and fire and darkness flowing through the earth like the blood from a dying giant.
And yet, three figures remained.
A gold-covered one.One crowned in flames.One dressed in shadow.
Kings and peasants, priests and tyrants, from all around the globe — all of them had turned to the two brothers and sister, when they were lords of a broken kingdom. They looked now, united, beside the body of the world's most evil.
"They did it."
Royal blood. They saved us.
Their names were no longer used. They were whispered as prayers. Or curses.
"Trison. The Golden King.""Sorella. The Phoenix of Mercy.""Zork. The Shadow of Death."
But what the world did not see — and what it did not dare to believe — was this:
The battle was not yet over.It was the start.
The gusts whipped violently through the battlefield rubble.
Trison knelt next to the fallen enemy, dented gold-plated mail dripping his own radiant golden blood — which still glowed.
Sorella followed behind him, wings of fire, her redness not due to fighting but from the tears she had cried.
And Zork?Zork was different.
Alone.
His broken crown lay low, the shadows twisting about his feet like hissing snakes. The sword in his grasp throbbed weakly, sin more than steel. He would not glance at his siblings. He could not.
Because he knew.
He was the key to their triumph.The reason why they would never be whole again.
[Fade to black.]
But the journey to that day did not start through triumph.It came from banishment.
A young man stood in front of the throne.
The king looked at him with disgust.
His brother and sister stood next to him, looking lost and helpless.
And then came the words that would start everything:
"You are not my son. Leave this kingdom, and never return."