The rain fell in thin, whispering sheets, a relentless shroud that veiled the city below in grief. Rooftops smoldered, their embers glowing like dying stars against the night. Sirens wailed, a chorus of despair, and the acrid scent of blood and ash hung heavy in the air. Yet within the obsidian throne room of the Citadel, where the Shadow Executioner's guttural roar still echoed in fading reverberations, an oppressive silence reigned.
Arin stood at the chamber's heart, his chest heaving, his sword dripping with corrupted ichor that hissed as it burned into the stone floor. His golden eyes flickered, caught between the radiant glow of Creation and the abyssal gleam of Destruction. The twin forces within him churned violently, a tempest threatening to tear his mortal frame apart. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder of the divine war raging inside him.
