The Devourer
Vornyx stood atop the ruins of Arkhelm, a god of wrath incarnate.
His eyes glowed with the heat of suns, his obsidian form cracking with burning light, veins of magma pulsing beneath his armored hide. The body of his sister lay far behind him now, buried again beneath the ash—this time not forgotten, but immortalized in vengeance.
Kael lunged first, his body a cascade of living fire. Thorne followed in tandem, claws spinning, tendrils flaring behind him like the wings of a banshee. Together they were cataclysmic. Together, they were supposed to be unstoppable.
But Vornyx was something else now.
He met Kael's charge with a single blow—a devastating backhand that snapped Kael's head sideways and shattered a row of buildings behind him from the impact. Thorne didn't even make contact before Vornyx spun and drove an armored foot through his chest, pinning the ancient to the pavement.
Their combined strength, speed, technique—it didn't matter.
They weren't fighting a soldier.
They were fighting grief.
Rage.
Pure, ancient hate.
Kael spat molten blood, his core flickering. "This… this isn't possible..."
Thorne screamed in defiance, lashing his tendrils to wrap Vornyx's limbs, but they snapped like twigs. Vornyx grabbed both ancients by the throats and slammed them together, creating a shockwave so massive it flattened half the battlefield and tossed soldiers like ragdolls.
Elian and Lyra, watching from the broken remnants of a tower, could only stare in horror. This wasn't vengeance.
This was the end of the world.
Vornyx tore into Kael first, ripping off limbs, smashing his skull until Kael's core sputtered into a dim spark. He roared with triumph—then devoured Kael, cracking his core between molten jaws, drinking his ancient essence like fuel.
Thorne tried to crawl away, whispering to Xerath for help that would never come.
Vornyx answered his pleas by consuming him alive.
The battlefield was silent.
Vornyx stood taller, broader—twice the monster he was moments ago. His form warped, unstable. His body bore the marks of three ancient primes now—his own, Kael's, and Thorne's. Too much power boiled in one vessel.
He had become the Devourer.
He roared, and the sky shattered—cracks in the clouds splitting the heavens like broken glass.
But then—a flash of steel.
A single figure moved faster than any eye could track.
Captain Sheane.
Reborn. His arm restored. His presence like a blade in a world of beasts.
He appeared behind Vornyx in a blink and drove a spear—crafted of ancient bone and runestone—straight through his back and out his chest.
The Devourer stumbled.
The spear drained.
Power siphoned from Vornyx like venom from a wound.
Vornyx turned, roaring in rage, but Sheane didn't flinch. He moved with military precision, activating a seal on his armor. Red tendrils of glyphs circled Vornyx's limbs, binding him mid-air. Another pulse. Then another.
Six seals.
Then twelve.
Vornyx screamed as his form collapsed, reverting, shrinking—falling. Sheane slammed his fist into Vornyx's face, knocking him unconscious mid-transformation.
The Devourer was defeated.
…
Hours later, silence reigned.
Captain Sheane led what was left of Arkhelm's survivors to a bunker buried miles beneath the city. It was built during the First Uprising—a last resort, a myth told among the elites.
It wasn't a myth anymore.
The Doomsday Bunker was carved from pure runestone, warded by ancient blood, and large enough to house thousands. Inside, survivors gathered—nurses, children, soldiers, and commanders all moved through triage centers and makeshift dormitories.
But in the darkest chamber—
Two cells stood opposite one another.
In the first, Vornyx was shackled to a throne of stone, glowing runes etched into his skin, suppressing his power. His head hung low, chains creaking with each breath.
And in the second cell—
Another Prime Ancient.
Lyra's sister.
Pale. Silent. Her white hair stained with blood. She watched Lyra with hollow eyes from behind her own set of restraints. Something about her felt... broken. But alive.
Elian stood beside Sheane. His fists clenched, mind reeling.
"They were supposed to be the enemy," he muttered, staring at the two ancients. "But now... we're all that's left."
Strategos, the surviving commander, stood near a war table. He placed a hand on Elian's shoulder.
"This was the beginning of the next age, boy," he said coldly. "We either learn from this... or we burn with it."
Captain Sheane nodded grimly.
"We lost Arkhelm. But we didn't lose everything."
His eyes drifted toward the restrained Vornyx.
"Not yet."