The first stone split with a sound like thunder.
The gates of the Hollow Spire shuddered as obsidian blades struck, over and over, until rusted iron screamed apart and the rebels' barricades cracked like bone. Dust rained from the ceiling. Children cried out, hushed by trembling hands.
Then silence.
Through the broken gates stepped the Obsidian Warlord.
It was taller than any man, armor fused with the black stone of the earth itself, helm crowned with jagged spikes. Its sword glowed with living night, a blade that devoured what little light clung to the ruins. Around it, the Legion marched in perfect rhythm, the sound of death made steady.
The rebels faltered. Even the scarred leader's flint-hard jaw trembled.
Kael stepped forward.
His cane struck stone once, sharp and final. The sound cut through the panic like a bell. His veiled face turned toward the Warlord, shadows curling faintly at his feet as if drawn by his presence.
"Hold," he said, voice low but commanding. "We are not yet broken."
The words steadied them. Barely.
Liora moved to his side, fire dancing along her palms. Her golden eyes locked on the towering figure, fear tightening her breath—but resolve burning hotter.
Rylan drew his blade and planted himself at Kael's other flank. "Then let's prove it."
The Warlord raised its sword. The ground quaked. And the battle began.
---
The Legion surged, obsidian armor clashing like an endless drum. Arrows rained down from the rebels' bows, shattering harmlessly against black helms. Spears broke, swords sparked uselessly.
Then fire cut the dark.
Liora thrust her hands forward, and flames burst from her palms—no longer wild, but coiled and guided. Yet they did not move on their own. Shadows stretched from Kael's cane, wrapping the fire, shaping it, driving it like spears into the Legion's ranks.
Armor cracked. Shadows burned. For the first time, the Legion staggered.
Gasps rose from the rebels. Whispers carried: The blind prince. The flame-born girl.
The Warlord moved.
Its blade swept through stone, shattering a wall, sending rebels flying. Kael raised his cane, shadows surging to shield them, but the strike nearly broke his barrier. His knees buckled, teeth clenched behind the veil.
"Kael!" Liora cried, flame flaring to hold the tide.
"I stand," he said through gritted teeth. "I always stand."
---
The Warlord descended again, sword cutting through the air like night incarnate. Kael twisted, shadows pulling him just out of reach, cane striking the ground with a resonant thrum. The echoes bent into threads—lines of darkness visible only to him.
For a heartbeat, he saw.
Not with eyes, but with the weave of the world. Shadows stretching, flames twisting, rebels clashing—a tapestry of battle.
His breath caught. His blind eyes burned faintly with pale silver light beneath the veil.
"Guide me," he whispered.
And the shadows obeyed.
Kael swept his cane, and threads of darkness coiled around Liora's flames, hurling them in arcs no mortal fire could follow. Legionnaires ignited, obsidian cracking under the searing light. The rebels shouted, their fear shifting into fury.
"Strike with them!" the scarred leader roared. "Strike for Eryndor!"
The tide turned.
---
But the Warlord did not fall.
It strode through flame and shadow, its armor glowing red-hot, yet unbroken. It raised its blade and drove it into the ground. Darkness spilled outward like venom, extinguishing torches, choking flames.
Rebels screamed as the shadows clutched at their ankles, dragging them down.
Liora faltered, fire sputtering. "Kael—!"
He stepped in front of her, lifting his cane. The silver light in his blind eyes burned brighter, threads of shadow converging around him like a storm.
The Warlord raised its sword again, intent on cleaving them both.
Kael thrust his cane forward. "Now!"
Liora's flames erupted, guided perfectly by his threads. Fire coiled like a serpent, striking the Warlord's helm. Obsidian cracked. A scream, not human, tore through the ruins.
The rebels surged with renewed hope, blades clashing, voices rising.
---
The Warlord staggered—but it did not fall.
Its helm split, faint red light spilling from within. It lifted its sword for one final blow, darkness bleeding from the blade. The strike would shatter everything.
Kael stood tall, though his breath was ragged, though his cane was cracked, though blood stained his veil. His voice rang like steel.
"By shadow and flame," he declared, "we break your chains."
Liora seized his hand, fire and shadow entwining. Together, they unleashed their power.
The Spire shook. Flames roared, shadows shrieked, stone split. The Warlord was engulfed in a storm of fire-darkness, its scream echoing into the night as its massive form crumbled, breaking apart into shards of obsidian.
Silence followed.
The Legion halted mid-stride. Then, one by one, the armored figures collapsed into heaps of black stone, their chains broken.
The battlefield stilled.
---
Rebels stared in shock, weapons trembling in their hands. The scarred leader lowered her blade slowly, awe breaking her stone-cold face. Rylan sheathed his sword with shaking fingers, eyes fixed on Kael.
Liora gasped, falling to her knees, the last of her fire flickering out. Kael swayed beside her, his cane splintered, his veil torn. For a heartbeat, his blind eyes glimmered faintly with silver threads—sight not of the world, but of its hidden weave.
Then the light faded.
Kael collapsed.
"Prince!" Rylan caught him before he struck stone. The rebels surged forward, half in fear, half in reverence.
The scarred leader whispered hoarsely, "He broke the unbreakable."
But even as the rebels rejoiced, a shadow lingered in the night air, heavy, suffocating. From the Warlord's shattered helm, a voice hissed like embers dying:
The chains are not broken. Only shifted. The Veiled One will bear them all.
The words chilled the rebels' triumph into silence.
Kael lay still in Rylan's arms, veil torn, his
secret half-revealed. And above them, the Hollow Spire loomed—watching, waiting, as if it, too, knew the storm had only begun.