The fires of war had long since burned away the illusions of peace. The rebels had fought through blood-soaked fields, through treacherous mountains, through the deepest trenches of despair. Every victory had been a wound, every loss a sacrifice too great to bear. And now, as the final confrontation loomed over them, there was no doubt left—this was the moment that would define their history.
Arkanis stood atop the highest watchtower of their fortress, staring into the distance where the Raven's forces gathered like storm clouds on the horizon. The wind howled through the ruined battlements, carrying the scent of earth and steel, a prelude to the reckoning that would soon begin.
The relic pulsed against his chest, its warmth more pronounced than ever. It no longer whispered—it no longer tempted. It simply waited.
Elara approached, stepping onto the platform with measured grace, her daggers secured at her belt, her posture poised with the weight of everything they had endured.
"You feel it, don't you?" she murmured.
Arkanis exhaled. "I do."
She traced her fingers over the hilt of her blade, watching him carefully. "And the relic?"
He turned to her, his eyes sharp, but for the first time, there was something else within them—clarity. "It's no longer a battle between us. We understand each other now."
Elara held his gaze, searching for any trace of hesitation, but found none.
She nodded. "Then we're ready."
The battlefield stretched beneath an unforgiving sky.
The Raven's forces had amassed on the outskirts of the valley, their banners fluttering in the rising wind.
Arkanis led his soldiers forward, every step steady, every breath controlled. This was no longer just a fight for survival—this was a fight for everything.
Elara remained at his side, her daggers gleaming as she assessed the enemy lines.
Zyre studied the formations, his mind calculating every possibility, every strategy, every opening that could be exploited.
Then, from the heart of the enemy ranks, a figure emerged.
The Raven.
His dark armor gleamed beneath the muted light, his sword resting easily at his side. He did not rush forward. He did not strike first. He simply waited.
Arkanis stepped forward, the relic pulsing with each measured breath.
The duel began.
Steel met steel, echoing across the valley like a thunderclap.
They moved in tandem, each strike faster than the last, each counter sharper, more precise.
But Arkanis did not fight with desperation.
He fought with balance.
The relic burned in sync with his movements, guiding him rather than consuming him.
The Raven pressed harder, his strikes relentless. "You think you've mastered it," he murmured. "But power does not belong to those who hesitate."
Arkanis blocked his attack, his blade unwavering. "Power belongs to those who understand it."
The battlefield blurred, the fight stretching beyond time, beyond exhaustion.
Then—
The decisive blow.
Steel crashed against steel.
The Raven faltered.
For the first time, his stance broke.
Arkanis did not hesitate.
He struck.
And with one final movement, the battle was decided.
The Raven's forces fell back. The rebels surged forward.
Victory.
But more than that—freedom.
As dawn stretched across the valley, bathing the ruins of war in golden light, Arkanis stood at the heart of the battlefield. The relic rested against his chest, silent now, no longer a force of chaos, but a part of him.
Elara stepped beside him, her fingers brushing against his arm. "It's over," she whispered.
Arkanis exhaled, the weight of everything settling within him. "Yes."
And for the first time in a long, long while—he allowed himself to believe it.