The capital didn't cheer.
It breathed.
For the first time in years, it exhaled the weight of fear, control, and the invisible chains that held it hostage under the Emperor's will.
Even the winds changed.
Callan stood in the rubble, his hand still smoking from where the shard had pierced the throne. His body ached in places no surgeon could mend—deep wounds of the soul, old scars that had reopened with every step toward the Emperor's death.
The Annihilation Shard had gone silent. Not broken. Not dormant.
Just… satisfied.
"You did it," Solenne said as she stepped beside him, bruised, bloodied, and grinning like a madwoman. "You actually did it."
"No," Callan replied. "We did."
Lysander limped to them, one arm wrapped in torn cloth, his mirrored gauntlet shattered. "So… does that mean we won?"
Callan looked around. The bodies of golden husks lay scattered across the ruined palace steps. The throne room had collapsed in on itself, a gaping wound where ambition had once sat. And above them, the sky was no longer hungry.
"We survived," Callan said. "That's a start."
The fall of the Emperor rippled like a fault line across the world.
In the far eastern deserts, the Sand Choir fell silent.
In the floating city of Vaelstrom, the storm engines powered down.
The Red Marsh dissolved into mist, releasing thousands of bound souls who had served the Empire's will.
The Empire didn't just lose a ruler.
It lost its anchor.
And the vacuum left behind was wide enough to swallow the future.
"You should take the throne," Solenne said, tossing a broken imperial scepter onto the floor of the ruined citadel. "You're the only one people would follow now."
Callan didn't even look at it. "That throne nearly ended the world."
"That throne is dust," Lysander added. "What comes next is what we build, not what we inherit."
Solenne raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying… we run the Empire by committee?"
Lysander smirked. "Gods no. But maybe the people who bled for it should decide what it becomes."
Callan turned away from the rubble, scanning the horizon. "The throne was only part of it. The Emperor's shadow stretched far. There are still factions loyal to him. Sorcerers who fed off his power. Legions that won't go quietly."
"Then we go hunting," Solenne said.
"No," Callan said firmly. "We rebuild."
They called it The Dawn Accord.
A summit of freed cities, rebel leaders, scholars, and war-scarred soldiers. They met not in palaces, but in the ruins of the capital itself. Every faction came with agendas. Some came with armies. All came with questions.
And at the center of it sat Callan—not as king, not as tyrant.
But as a witness.
"The throne is dead," he said to them. "And if we build another like it, we'll only be repeating history. If you want rulers, choose them. If you want peace, earn it. But if you want me to sit on another throne, I'll burn it myself."
They believed him.
Because he already had.
Not all were pleased.
In the shadowed mountains, the Dagger Priests cursed his name.
In the north, a Warlord named Karsk declared himself the Emperor's true heir and began rallying the scattered remnants of imperial legions.
And in the west, a sorceress known only as The Weeping Flame began collecting fragments of broken shards.
Peace was not a destination.
It was a brief pause.
But it was enough.
That night, Callan returned to the place where it all began.
The graveyard of his old battalion.
There were no names on the stones.
Only numbers.
Experiments. Failures. Ghosts.
He lit a fire and sat alone.
Until Solenne joined him, carrying a bottle of stolen wine and two tin cups.
"You know," she said, pouring for both, "you really do know how to ruin a perfectly good dictatorship."
"I'm not sorry."
She clinked her cup against his. "To not being sorry."
They drank.
Silence returned.
Then Solenne asked, "Do you think it's over?"
Callan stared into the fire. "No. But I think we finally have a choice."
Behind them, the wind carried the scent of ash and lavender.
The sky above twinkled—no longer devouring.
Just watching.