The Lich King's puppet body, a construct of ancient bone and even more ancient arrogance, crumbled into a fine, black dust that was scattered by a nonexistent wind. The blue fire in its sockets winked out, and the spire was silent.
On the far side of the chasm, Mela stared, her swarm of needles clattering to the stone bridge as her concentration broke completely. Serian stood with her sword still glowing, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and absolute terror.
Nox stood on the platform where the throne had been, the black, chitinous armor flowing back under his skin, leaving him looking like himself again, only much, much more tired. The massive hole in the bridge was a stark reminder of the ridiculous, impossible plan that had somehow worked.
'Shit,' Nox thought, a wave of profound exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow. 'That took a lot out of me. Like, everything.'
