The battlefield was silent.
Not because the war had ended—but because Wrath had ended it.
He stood alone amid the wreckage of a thousand shattered moons, his armor scorched, his blade dripping with the heat of collapsed stars. His breath was fire. His heartbeat was thunder. His eyes were storms that never passed.
Wrath did not remember peace. He remembered orders.
Pride's orders.
"Hold the line," Pride had once said, as if Wrath were a pawn. As if fury could be contained.
Wrath had obeyed. Not out of loyalty—but because rage needs direction. And Pride had given it.
But now, Wrath was directionless. And that was dangerous.
He returned to his forge—a mountain carved from the bones of fallen titans. There, he plunged his blade into the heart of a dying comet and listened to it scream. The metal sang with vengeance.
Greed arrived, cloaked in gold and silence.
"You burn for something," Greed said. "Let me give it shape."
Wrath did not answer. He did not need to.
Greed laid out the plan: a coordinated strike, a betrayal masked as justice. Pride would fall. The throne would be shattered. And Wrath would finally be free.
Wrath gripped his blade.
"I do not want freedom," he said, voice like magma. "I want retribution."
He carved an oath into the comet's core, each word a promise of violence.
Then he turned toward the Palace of Mirrors.
And the battlefield began to tremble again.