The air was thin. Too thin, like the void beyond the wall had bled through and hollowed every breath into glass. No words moved between them, no sound but the low hum of the gate and the faint crack of stone where Noah's roots had forced themselves up.
Five ballistas stood before them now—crystalline frames fused with iron veins, bolts tipped in pale white, each one gleaming with a cold light that looked like it belonged to something older than war. Their shadows stretched long across the ground, bending under the fractured glow of the sky.
Noah lowered his arms slowly, the last shimmer of growth fading from his fingertips. His hands trembled—not visibly, not enough for the others to catch, but enough that he could feel it in the tightness of his bones. He kept them hidden in the folds of his coat, as if still working.
James didn't move. Both hands clamped tight around his hammer, his stance drawn forward like a wolf at the chain. The molten cracks along the weapon pulsed once, steady, each glow syncing with the beat of his chest. His eyes never left the gate.
Jasper's katana caught the light in thin silver lines, the steel tilted slightly toward the wall as if the blade itself was impatient. His jaw clenched tight, shoulders rigid, every muscle wound into a coil. He looked smaller against that citadel, but not weaker. Not anymore.
Noah drew in the breath he had been holding, the words scraping his throat dry as they left.
"Go."
The sound was nothing more than a stone dropped into an endless pit. But it carried, and it was enough.
Boots thundered over crystal and stone. The army surged forward in a single motion—no battle cry, no anthem—just the raw, guttural sound of bodies committing to death or victory. Men and women vaulted onto the ballistas, hands gripping levers, eyes locked on the pale wall ahead.
The first bolt screamed through the air.
A flash—then impact.
The stone cracked apart like brittle bone, a burst of dust and pale shards raining down as the wall crumbled in on itself. A gap, wide enough for a charge. The mechanism hissed, gears twisting, and the next bolt slid into place with a metallic click, the crystal tip glowing faintly from the heat of its birth.
Civil Control burst from the citadel gate—shapes of glass and metal, trapezoid heads gleaming with that faint screen-light, faceless, endless. They sprinted forward in rigid formation, rifles raised, steps too inhumanly perfect to belong to flesh.
James didn't wait.
His hammer came down like judgment—one swing, and the nearest Shade was paste, its torso imploding under molten force. Screens shattered, wires curled, and the air stank of burned circuitry.
He pushed off the ground, a single leap tearing him skyward, cloak snapping against the shockwave. Both hands on the handle—no, one. The other stretched out like a warning. Then the hammer descended—sunlight and fury collapsing into one blow.
The light gate shattered.
A crack of thunder.
A roar like breaking dawn.
"Advance!" James barked, voice raw and absolute. "They don't feel mercy—don't give them a thought of it!"
Jasper didn't need to be told twice. He darted through the wreckage, shards scraping his boots as he crossed into the ruin of what had once been home. The hall waited for him—empty stone, dust, and silence broken only by the mechanical hiss of the Shades drawing near.
Instinct took hold.
First—one clean stroke across the neck. Sparks. Oil.
Second—low sweep; legs severed, collapse before a scream could rise.
Third—forward thrust, steel piercing screen and skull, pinning the last against the wall like a nailed effigy.
Bloodless, wordless, efficient.
The others flooded in behind him, the revolution spilling through the broken gate like water through cracked glass. James landed heavy beside him, hammer still glowing, a nod exchanged between war and resolve.
"He's waiting," James said, eyes fixed down the corridor ahead. "Evodil knows we're here."
Across the chaos, past the smoke and broken banners, there was quiet.
A stillness framed by trees whose leaves glowed faint violet beneath the fractured sky, their roots twisting through the soil like veins trying to flee the war. The bridge stretched ahead—white stone, weathered by years that never truly passed, its edges carved with old Menystrian sigils now chipped and faded.
There—alone—stood Evodil.
No words left his mouth. No grin curved at his lips. His eyes were heavy, shadowed—not by rage, not by grief, just the quiet exhaustion of someone who had already died once and hadn't noticed.
He reached into his coat. The pocket watch came free with a soft click, its face cracked through the center, hands still ticking in stubborn rhythm. The metal caught the dim light, dull, worn—like it remembered gentler hours. A relic from someone. A victim. A friend. Or maybe a remnant of when this world had meant something.
Screams rolled faint in the distance—human, inhuman, all tangled into one long, meaningless note. He listened for a moment, then shut the watch. The sound of it closing was sharper than any blade.
A sigh escaped him.
He stepped forward, boots crushing the edge of a broken tile, cloak brushing low against the ground. His hand found the hood—dark leather, fur-lined, edges worn soft from years of storms. He pulled it over his head, shadows slipping across his face.
Memories came with the motion—
Jasper's knife collection scattered across the table like trophies.
James shouting about taxes before Evodil tossed the ledgers out the window, laughing as pages scattered like snow.
Noah's glare from beneath the surface, his voice muffled by moss and roots, while Evodil teased him about his "grass girlfriend."
Flickers. Nothing more.
Now they burned like ghosts against the inside of his skull.
He moved again, the crunch of his boots louder than the battle behind him. Onto the bridge now—the old white stone gleaming faintly, stretching between the manor's front and the citadel's back like a scar.
At the far end, beneath the open arch, he saw them.
James. Jasper. Both still. Both waiting.
No shouts. No names. No accusations.
Only the air between them, thick with what none of them could say.
Evodil's spine straightened, the shadows around him bending as tendrils slid out from beneath the folds of his coat. Thinner now—refined. Each one razor-sharp, twitching with a surgeon's intent. No games this time. No illusions.
He didn't need to speak.
They wouldn't understand.
And even if they did—
He'd already chosen silence.
After all… he was always insane.
Now, he was simply obedient.
A puppet hearing the final cue.
Evodil stopped halfway across the bridge, cloak settling around his boots like spilled ink. The wind caught in the folds, carrying the faint tang of dust and burnt metal from the citadel behind.
James broke first. A blur of motion—hammer drawn back, every muscle in his body driving him forward. Each step cracked the bridge beneath his feet, divine weight pressing into stone that trembled at his pace. The god's eyes burned, fixed on the hooded figure ahead.
But Evodil didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even lift a hand.
Jasper slowed, steps faltering as instinct twisted sharp in his gut. The stillness—too deliberate. Not hesitation. Not doubt. He knew that look. This wasn't Evodil freezing. This was Evodil setting the stage.
"James, wait—"
Too late.
Tendrils shot outward—thin, clean, silent. Not towards them. Past them.
James braced, hammer raised for a guard that never met its mark. Jasper's sword flashed, cutting through the empty air as one of the black appendages whipped by, a hair's breadth from his shoulder. They weren't targets. They weren't even obstacles.
The tendrils arced high, splitting into a dozen gleaming lines that buried themselves into the citadel walls behind.
Then—pressure.
A sound like stone sighing its last breath.
The citadel cracked open.
Each wall cleaved clean, entire spires sliding apart like halves of a dissected monument. The air filled with dust, light, and silence where screams should have been. Bricks fell like rain, whole chambers collapsing inward, swallowed by their own ruin.
Jasper froze.
James halted mid-step, hammer lowering just enough for the tremor to reach his arms.
When the dust began to settle, nothing remained. No shouts. No cries. No echoes of human life or Shade static. Only the hollow wind threading through broken arches and the faint shimmer of crystal dust drifting down.
Whatever war this was, it had ended behind them.
Now it was only three.
James grunted, the sound low, heavy—more grief than rage. His gaze fixed forward, locking on the shadowed face before him. Beneath that hood, no light. No eyes. Just the faint outline where a blindfold should have been—too dark to see through, too thick to guess what lay behind.
Noah's brother. His brother.
And yet—
James couldn't read a single thought left inside him.
They moved as one.
James broke the silence first—a forward surge, hammer raised high, eyes burning through the veil of dust. Jasper followed, a step behind, katana glinting like a shard of dawn. Every sound—the crack of boots, the hiss of air—was swallowed by the weight pressing down on the bridge.
Evodil stepped back once, cloak dragging across the stone. His expression didn't change; there was no anger, no sorrow. Just a tired inevitability settling behind the blindfold.
Then the bridge began to groan.
Thin spines of shadow unfurled from his back, sharp enough to hum against the air, slicing down in swift, measured arcs. They carved through the anchor beams—clean, precise—splitting the supports that bound the bridge to either side.
A deep shudder followed.
Cracks spidered through the white stone.
The entire span began to fall.
Evodil leapt first.
His boots struck earth beside the manor's door, a plume of dust rising around him. Behind, the bridge crumbled into nothing—chunks of marble and debris spiraling into the abyss.
James didn't hesitate. He caught Jasper by the wrist mid-fall, the weight of his son tugging him down. With a grunt, he swung them clear of the wreckage, landing hard in the courtyard below. The ground shook beneath their boots, shards of stone scattering around them.
They exhaled, twin breaths ragged from the sudden drop. Across from them, Evodil already stood ready—hood drawn low, cloak brushing the grass, his outline blurred by the rising haze.
A slow sigh slipped from his chest. Not regret. Not relief. Just the release of someone stepping back into a role they'd never wanted.
His hand dipped into his coat. From its inner fold, the Crypt Blade emerged—first the hilt, materializing like ink bleeding through paper, then the blade itself, building length by length in flickers of shadow. White runes lit one by one across its edge, twisting in a language neither brother nor son recognized—nor cared to.
Jasper steadied his breath, lowering his stance, blade angled in front of him.
James shifted forward, hammer in both hands, the faint glow beneath his feet pulsing with molten light.
Evodil raised the claymore, both hands on the hilt, black steel whispering as it cut through the air.
No words.
No hesitation.
Just three figures framed by ruin, each ready to carve the other into memory.
James charged first, a rumble with legs, hammer surging like a star about to fall.
Evodil's arms tightened, runes flaring—spines coiling behind him, ready to strike.
Jasper followed, slower, breath held, eyes locked on the moment between impact and consequence.
James hit first. His hammer swung in a downward arc, the air splitting with a deafening crack. Evodil caught it on the flat of the Crypt Blade, runes sparking white against molten orange. The impact shook the courtyard, shards of stone ripping free from the ground as a ring of force tore outward.
Jasper slipped through the dust. Katana flashing low, he aimed for Evodil's ribs, the blade skimming close enough to catch fabric. A black spine lashed out, deflecting the strike with a sharp clang, the vibration rattling through Jasper's metal arm.
James came again, hammer driving forward like a piston. Evodil turned, twisting the claymore into a brutal parry—steel grinding against volcanic rock, sparks falling between their locked weapons.
Another spine whipped upward, aimed for James's throat. He ducked under it, shoulder driving forward to shove his brother back. Evodil slid across the courtyard dirt, cloak dragging in his wake, but his balance never broke. His hood never slipped.
Jasper closed in, two hands on his blade, cutting high for the neck. Evodil shifted—one smooth pivot, claymore sweeping wide. The katana barely caught it, screeching as the black steel pressed down, forcing Jasper's knees toward the ground. His teeth clenched, muscles screaming, until James crashed in again, hammer slamming into Evodil's flank.
The god of shadows stumbled, breath sharp, cloak snapping outward. Spines lashed in every direction, carving the air into razors. One clipped James across the shoulder—blood sprang, hot against the molten glow of his weapon. Another grazed Jasper's cheek, a thin cut blooming red as he twisted away.
No pause. No reprieve.
James's hammer rose once more, sunlight spilling from its cracks like fire trying to escape. Jasper circled fast, lungs burning, every step syncing to the rhythm of survival.
And Evodil—silent still—lifted the Crypt Blade high, its runes flaring bright enough to drown out the stars overhead.
Jasper's breath came ragged, every exhale scraped raw. He turned to James, the weight in his chest heavier than the blade in his hands. Across from them, Evodil stood—still, unmoving, claymore tilted forward, the pale runes bleeding light onto the torn grass.
The metallic grind of Jasper's arm broke the silence.
A jagged scrape, gears struggling under the strain, joints whining with every twitch of his fingers. He flexed once, pain flashing across his face. It wouldn't hold much longer. But it didn't have to.
Just enough to finish this.
James didn't glance over. Didn't even blink. His focus was locked—unbroken, burning into the hollow shadow that used to be his brother. There should've been a word. A taunt. Some bitter shard of humor like the old days. But there was nothing.
Only that stare beneath the hood.
Only that silence.
James' jaw clenched, voice tearing out before thought could catch it.
"You slaughtered them!" he roared, stepping forward, hammer trembling in his grip. "Every man, woman—child! You called it mercy, didn't you?"
Evodil didn't flinch.
"Answer me!" James shouted, the air cracking around his voice. "You think this is a game? That their screams meant nothing?! You killed them, you killed him, you tore Jasper apart—" His words broke, breath hitching, fury spilling past restraint. "You burned everything we swore to protect!"
Still, no answer.
The Crypt Blade hummed, white runes flaring, cutting through the wind like a heartbeat.
James' grip tightened. "Say something!"
Evodil exhaled once—a sound half sigh, half shudder—then tilted the sword forward. No apology. No plea. Just readiness.
The last thread snapped.
James roared, leaping into the strike, hammer raised high, molten veins igniting along his arms. The blow came down like the sun itself had fallen.
Evodil didn't dodge. He met it.
Steel collided with shadow. The world split open.
A shockwave ripped through the courtyard, wind screaming as the earth itself recoiled. Trees tore free from their roots, spiraling into the void. Windows shattered, the manor's façade splintering under the pressure.
Jasper dropped low, boots digging into the soil, blade stabbed down for balance. The force clawed at him, dragging him toward the cliff's edge. White sparks flared from the clash—blinding, searing—twisting with black flame until both swallowed the sky.
James grunted through his teeth, muscles locking, veins glowing. Evodil said nothing—no curse, no breath, no sound.
Only silence,
and the crushing weight of it breaking James more than any blade could.
The air cracked as James staggered back—boots dragging deep lines in the soil, breath tearing through his chest. Evodil pressed forward, the weight of his strike throwing sparks where blade met hammer. One final shove, and James went tumbling across the courtyard, dirt and splinters scattering in his wake.
Jasper froze where he stood.
His heart pounded, too loud, too fast, hands trembling around the hilt. The world seemed to fold inward—nothing but those two figures, shadows and fire locked in the ruin.
Evodil moved first.
The spines along his back shifted, softening—razors dulling, curling into coiled whips that shot out with blinding speed. They wrapped around James's arms, dragging down with brutal force as Evodil lunged in.
James roared back, heat flaring from every inch of his skin. A ring of fire exploded outward, searing the ground in a burst of molten orange. The spines shrieked under the blaze, snapping loose as Evodil broke through the inferno, blade raised.
Hammer and sword clashed again.
This time, James caught the blade barehanded, molten cracks burning across his palm. Instead of pushing away, he pulled—dragging his brother close, twisting his weight into a sudden, savage punch.
Evodil's head snapped to the side, breath escaping in a ragged grunt.
James didn't stop. The second blow hit his gut, knuckles slamming into fabric and bone. Another groan, louder this time—pain breaking through the silence at last.
Behind them, Jasper blinked hard, the haze finally shattering. His arm whined—a scrape of gears, a pulse of heat—but he didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, katana reversing in his grip.
The gods were still locked, hammer and claymore grinding in place, when Jasper struck.
A single step, a clean thrust.
Steel cut through cloth, flesh, shadow. The tip burst from Evodil's chest, glistening dark beneath the fractured sky.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
James stared—shock freezing him mid-motion, the gleam of the blade visible just inches from his hand.
Evodil coughed.
Black essence spilled from his mouth, thick and cold, dripping down his chin. He turned—slowly—to look behind him.
The hood fell back.
White hair, matted and scorched. Horns curling like cracked ivory. And over his eyes—the blindfold, drenched in black, shifting faintly as he breathed.
He looked at Jasper then—not as an uncle, not as god.
But as something broken beyond repair.
Hatred flared in the hollow where sight used to be.
Disgust. Disbelief. Betrayal.
James raised his hammer again—
ready to strike before that look could burn any deeper.
"Jasper—get off him!"
James's voice ripped through the courtyard, raw, breaking with panic. He charged forward, hammer raised, eyes locked on the sight of his son clinging to the back of a god who no longer looked human.
The hammer came down—once, twice—slamming into Evodil's shoulder, forcing him off balance. The impact cracked the ground beneath them, a flash of molten light carving through the dirt. The blow threw both figures apart, Jasper stumbling back, still gripping his katana lodged deep in Evodil's chest.
Then—movement.
From Evodil's back, the spines coiled again—slick and black, their surfaces trembling like something alive. They wrapped around Jasper's torso, dragging him close, pulling him eye-to-eye with the blindfolded god.
And for the first time since this battle began—Evodil smiled.
Wide. Crooked. Unsettling.
James's heart seized. He lunged, every step shattering stone, hammer blazing with sunfire.
But Evodil was faster.
The spines shivered—then twisted, reshaping into blades so thin they hummed, so sharp they whispered through the air.
"No—!"
James's scream tore through the storm as he closed the last few meters, but the sound couldn't outrun what came next.
A single, wet snap.
Then the world turned red.
The blades plunged through Jasper from every angle—six, eight, ten at once—bursting through his chest, his sides, his throat. Metal fingers twitched, still gripping the hilt as the rest of him tore apart. Flesh split like silk; ribs cracked open, white bone flashing before vanishing under the spray. The pressure carved his body into a mist of blood and shrapnel—bits of arm, shards of blade, the severed half of a leg tumbling across the stones.
His face was gone before it could even register the pain—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent gasp as his head separated cleanly, rolling once before slipping into the abyss below.
What was left of Jasper hit the ground in scattered pieces—steam rising off the warm blood soaking into the grass.
James skidded to a stop, hammer trembling in his grip, droplets of his son's blood striking his armor, his face.
The silence that followed was worse than the scream.
Evodil's breath hitched once—then broke into laughter.
It tore from his chest, wild and sharp, the sound of a man whose strings had finally snapped. Each note rose higher, louder, until it echoed across the courtyard like a hymn for the damned.
Blood dripped down his face in slow streaks—Jasper's blood, warm and bright against the pallor of his skin. It soaked through the seams of his suit, dyed his hair crimson, clung to the runes still glowing faintly on the Crypt Blade. A smear of gold—James's ichor—ran down his jaw, catching the fractured light before falling to the ground.
He looked like a masterpiece painted in ruin.
James didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
The navy of his suit was stained now—spattered with red, his son's red—and the hammer in his hands felt heavier than any weight he had carried before. His throat burned, but no sound came. No words. No cries. Just silence—thick and choking, louder than Evodil's laughter could ever be.
Evodil threw his head back, arms stretching wide, blood spinning off in red arcs. "You know," he said between ragged chuckles, voice raw, "I got an awful lot of inspiration from that one. But really—" his grin curled, too wide, too human, "—that was the most creative end I could give him. Quick. Clean. Didn't even have time to feel it. Steak tartare before the pain hit. Poetic, don't you think?"
Nothing.
James's lips parted, but the air refused him.
Inside, the words clawed—Not again. Not him. Not now. But they never made it out.
He stared at what remained on the ground—torn pieces, fading warmth—and felt the first crack tear through the armor around his heart. A feeling he had buried, forgotten how to hold, bled back in all at once.
He staggered once, caught himself.
Then straightened.
If he spoke, the sound would break him. So he didn't.
Evodil tilted his head, the smile softening, not in kindness but in cruelty. "You can stop now," he said, calm again. "You've got no allies left. Just that archer skulking in the dark, and he's smart enough to stay gone."
No answer.
James inhaled slow, heavy. The sound scraped like stone. He raised the hammer—grip firm, both hands steady—resting it against his shoulder. The molten veins along its surface flared to life, one by one, until the cracks glowed like a dying sun.
No more mercy.
No more saving.
Just the last swing he had left.
Evodil's laugh broke into a low chuckle as he rolled his shoulders, blood still drying across his collar. The Crypt Blade returned to his grip, its runes burning faintly, white fire sliding down the edge like the echo of a scream.
"Fine," he breathed, voice almost calm again. "Let's end the show."
He didn't wait.
One step—then gone.
The ground cracked where he'd been, and suddenly he was there, inches from James's face, blade already descending. James caught the motion, barely—his hammer twisting up, the steel shaft intercepting the strike with a burst of sparks.
Evodil's grin widened, too sharp, too certain. The spines burst from his back once more, wrapping around him in a blur before he kicked off the ground, flipping clean over James. Mid-spin, the shadows hardened—razor-thin, whistling through the air.
James didn't turn. He didn't need to.
Flames roared to life behind him—his arm snapping up, summoning a shield of pure fire. It flared wide, molten light spilling across the courtyard. The spines hit, searing against the barrier, their edges bending and splintering under the heat.
James pushed forward, the shield crackling with embers as he advanced.
Evodil landed opposite him, reversing his grip on the claymore, dragging the blade in a tight arc that split the air open. The distance between them vanished—heat and shadow swallowing the space.
The ground beneath their feet groaned.
James didn't speak. He walked through the haze, hammer and shield in perfect rhythm.
Evodil stood waiting, blade angled down, that same faint smile curling at the edges.
Then—impact.
Hammer met sword.
Light met void.
The explosion of force sent shards of stone spinning skyward. The Menystrian crater itself trembled, fissures spiderwebbing through the rock as the air filled with sparks and shrapnel.
James's boots dug into the ground, the heat around him rippling like the breath of a dying sun. Across from him, Evodil held firm, black spines driven into the dirt, anchoring him in place as his smirk stretched wider—mocking, unbreakable.
Each second of the clash ground against James's patience. His jaw locked, his muscles trembling with the weight of fury he could no longer contain.
"You're a coward," he spat through his teeth. "A damned, merciless coward hiding behind your own blade—killing anyone who dared to say you weren't fit to rule!"
Evodil's head tilted back, laughter spilling from him—low at first, then sharp, cutting through the roar of the flames.
No defense.
No denial.
Only that laugh, feeding the fire behind James's eyes.
The world convulsed.
A roar tore through the crater as the shockwave threw both gods apart, flames and shadow coiling skyward in a blinding bloom. James skidded back, boots carving molten trails through the dirt. Evodil stumbled near the edge—one step too far, the ground giving way beneath his heel.
Below, the abyss glowed—no longer black, but seething red, magma veins twisting like the heart of a dying world. The old barrier that once sealed the underground district was gone, devoured by the same void it tried to contain.
Evodil caught himself—spines bursting from his back, embedding deep into the cracked stone, hauling his body back over the ledge. His cloak smoldered as he landed on the burnt grass, ash rising in thin curls around his boots.
James was already there.
No hesitation. No mercy.
His hand fisted in Evodil's collar, hauling him upright in a single, brutal motion. Sparks hissed where divine heat met the soaked fabric. James's eyes burned gold, brighter than the fire beneath them.
The first punch came fast.
Then the second.
Then a third—hard enough to make bone crunch, black ichor spraying across the ground.
No words.
Just sound.
Knuckles on flesh. The wet crack of impact. The sharp hiss of breath between clenched teeth.
Each blow drew more of that inky blood, dripping into the abyss below, vanishing into the heat.
Evodil didn't fight back.
Didn't guard.
Didn't flinch.
He just laughed—broken, breathless, wild—spitting black with every chuckle. Maybe it was madness. Maybe it had always been him. The thought carved deeper into James's skull with each strike.
He hit him again, harder, until golden ichor leaked from his own knuckles, glowing veins wrapping his fist in blinding light. Each swing painted Evodil's face in gold and red, turning him into something unholy, something between god and corpse.
Evodil's head tilted back, grin carved into ruin. One last laugh slipped through split lips—faint, rattling, defiant.
Below, the abyss brightened.
The molten glow climbed the walls, rising like a tide, trembling in rhythm with James's fading heartbeat. The planet's core stirred, sensing the fracture in its gods.
Evodil clapped—slow, ragged, blood-slick hands smacking together as if mocking applause.
"Well done," he rasped, voice raw, broken teeth glinting. "You did it. You beat me again, brother. Always were good at that."
He coughed black, smiled wider. "But you missed something."
James froze, fist hovering mid-swing, breath ragged.
Evodil leaned close, eyes unseen behind the blindfold, voice soft like confession.
"You're out of allies."
A pause.
"While all this time…"
He grinned—white teeth against the gold and red ruin.
"…they've been fighting one man."
His words hung heavy, twisted in echo.
No army.
No revolution.
No friends.
Only him.
Evodil.
Evodil's laughter came ragged now—half-choked, half-sputtered through the black sludge dripping from his lips. Each breath caught against his throat, turning the sound into a sick wheeze, somewhere between mirth and dying.
James stared down at him, disgust etched deep into every line of his face. His hammer hung at his side, too heavy to lift, his arms trembling with exhaustion. Every muscle screamed, every vein burned with fading fire. He had nothing left to give.
Evodil wheezed again, shoulders shaking as he coughed another ribbon of dark essence onto the ground. The sound that followed was almost applause—his hands smacking together weakly, mockingly. He tilted his head up, blindfold turning toward James's lenses, red light flickering off both surfaces.
Slowly, deliberately, Evodil lifted one arm—fingers trembling—and raised it high in mock surrender. A smirk tugged at his lips, faint, crooked, deliberate. His chest rose and fell with uneven rhythm, breath hissing out through his nose like a dying beast.
James drew in air through gritted teeth, chest heaving. "You think this is funny?" His voice came low, rough, breaking between syllables. "You butchered everyone. My soldiers. My son. All so you could laugh over the ashes?"
Nothing.
No reply.
Evodil only nodded, slow, acknowledging the words as if they were a sermon meant for someone else entirely.
Silence.
Then—squelch.
A sound crawled in from behind.
Wet. Uneven. Like flesh dragging itself across stone.
James turned.
And froze.
The ground behind them rippled with motion—forms rising from the dirt, shifting under the fractured light. Slabs of half-formed bodies, dripping, twitching, gasping through mouths that weren't whole. Dozens of them. Then more.
They stumbled forward—white eyes glowing through faces stretched thin, features flickering like broken memories. He knew those shapes. The soldiers from camp. The ones who laughed around the fire, who raised their blades when hope was a whisper.
Now they dragged themselves closer, arms hanging like dead branches, throats bubbling with the only sound left in them—mute, pleading breaths for a mercy that would never come.
Evodil's laugh returned, faint but cruel, a blade through the quiet.
"How many do you think you saved, brother?" he rasped. "How many did you really keep from me?" His smile widened, black teeth flashing. "While you played soldier, I collected them. Every step. Every night. You thought this was fair?"
James's eyes flared, a trembling hand gripping the hammer tighter. His throat worked, but no words came this time—only a guttural sound, too human for a god.
He turned back, jaw tight, and shoved Evodil hard.
The god of shadows stumbled, boots sliding off the broken edge. He fell back toward the glowing crater, cloak flaring behind him like torn wings.
But before he could vanish into the molten light, black spines shot out, impaling into the rock, holding him fast. He dangled there, grinning up through blood and shadow.
And on the surface, James stood alone.
The shades closed in—hands outstretched, eyes wide, the smell of death and regret thick in the heat.
James turned.
The air was thick with rot and smoke, the glow from the abyss flickering against the countless shapes crowding toward him. They weren't people anymore. Just husks — moving stains of darkness with eyes like chalk scribbles, wide and wrong, staring through him as though remembering what they'd once been.
He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp, hollow. A weary sigh dragged out of his lungs. "So this is it," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Not warriors. Not even ghosts."
He stepped forward, throwing a punch that barely left his shoulder. It cut through air, passed straight through one of the shadows. No contact. No weight. His strength was gone. His fire, spent.
The answer came from them.
Hands—hundreds, thousands—tore out of the black. They clutched at his arms, his chest, his legs, dragging him down, closer to the edge. The mass swallowed its own shapes, merging into a single writhing form. Limbs folded into limbs, faces smeared together, until it was one enormous, pulsing void.
It wrapped around him.
Pressed in.
Smothered breath and movement alike.
James struggled, muscles straining, light flickering weakly across his shoulders. But the fire wouldn't come. His lungs burned; his chest caved beneath the weight. He gasped once, twice—then stilled, eyes turned toward what little he could still see.
The ruins.
The citadel broken and bleeding dust into the air.
The manor's windows, cracked like mirrors that refused to reflect them anymore.
The courtyard, where trees once bloomed and laughter used to echo through the halls.
The bridge that connected them—home to home, brother to brother—now gone.
All of it fading, piece by piece, into the silence they'd made.
The mass lurched, dragging him toward the rim. He couldn't scream; no breath left to give. The only sound was the low, wet rumble of the shadow's movement as it pitched forward, carrying him off the edge.
Down they fell—faster and faster—heat rising to meet them.
Evodil watched from above, fingers locked into the stone. His smirk was gone. The blindfold hid most of his face, but behind it, the white glint of his pupils shrank to pinpoints before vanishing into black.
No words.
No farewell.
Only the fire below, blooming bright enough to swallow them both.
The end of an era.