The throne room of Arcana shimmered with light for the first time in years. The banners of the realm, long torn and dulled by the rule of Jobul, now hung proudly from the marble walls, clean and renewed. The people of Arcana—elves, warriors, and mages alike—stood in the courtyard, their voices echoing in cheers that seemed to shake the very sky.
Kar'Thael, clad in silver and black ceremonial armor, took his place upon the throne. His crimson cloak, flowing like a river of fire behind him, marked the return of the true prince. The cheers grew louder, chants of his name rolling like thunder across the city.
Among the crowd, Arslan stood quietly, his arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips. He felt the weight of the moment—Arcana was free, their chains broken. But in his heart, there was an itch, a pull, toward another world.
As the people's celebrations continued, Arslan approached the throne.
"I have to go back to Earth," he said firmly. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed urgency.
Kar'Thael's brows furrowed. "Wait… we will both go together."
Arslan shook his head. "No, Arcana needs you. You've just regained your throne—your people need their leader right now. I'll go for now."
Kar'Thael leaned forward, his tone dropping to a quieter, almost brotherly voice. "Then take care of yourself… I will follow once I set policy here."
Arslan allowed himself a small smirk. "Then we will start our journey to the next goal."
They clasped hands, a silent promise passing between them. Then, without hesitation, Arslan walked toward the central portal chamber. The magical gate shimmered, its surface rippling like water. As he stepped through, the blinding light swallowed him whole.
---
The moment Arslan emerged on Earth, the world felt… wrong.
A cold wind carried the stench of burnt wood, scorched stone, and—more chilling—blood. His boots crunched over the dirt, and when he looked down, he saw dark, dried stains across the ground. Broken arrows, shattered weapons, and scraps of armor lay scattered like forgotten toys.
His jaw tightened. "Something happened," he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the distant crackle of fire.
Pushing forward, he made his way toward the Upper District. The once-proud district was unrecognizable—tall buildings lay in heaps of stone and twisted metal, streets cracked and filled with debris. Smoke curled into the grey sky, and the distant wails of the injured reached his ears like the cries of ghosts.
Further ahead, he saw Echelon Knights working frantically, their armor dented, their faces pale from exhaustion. Some carried stretchers with bloodied bodies; others moved rubble to free trapped survivors. The air was thick with urgency and grief.
Arslan strode toward one of the knights, a young man whose gauntlets were stained crimson. "What happened?" Arslan demanded.
The knight's voice trembled. "An intense demon attack… unlike anything we've seen."
Arslan's eyes narrowed. "Where are the Mythics?"
"They're near the Lake District," the knight replied quickly before rushing to aid another wounded soldier.
Without another word, Arslan took off toward the Lake District. His boots pounded against the cobblestones, his heart thudding louder with every step. He passed shattered carts, collapsed bridges, and claw marks etched into stone walls. Each sign whispered of a battle far more savage than anything he had expected.
---
When he finally reached the Lake District, the scene stopped him in his tracks.
The beautiful lakeside, once a place of calm reflection and light, was now a graveyard. The water was dark, reflecting only shadows. Trees were torn apart, their branches scattered like bones. The air carried the bitter scent of magic spent in desperation.
And there—among the ruins—stood the Mythics. But they weren't fighting. They weren't strategizing. They were… crying.
Arslan's steps slowed. His stomach turned, dread curling around his spine.
When he drew closer, the image before him shattered his breath. Nirela's body lay still upon the ground, her armor dented, her blade lying inches from her lifeless hand. Blood—dark and dry—clung to her lips. Her face, once fierce with determination, was now pale and serene, as though she'd simply fallen asleep.
His heart clenched so hard it felt like the world had stopped.
He stumbled forward, his knees threatening to give way. "No…"
His vision blurred. His legs buckled, but strong hands caught him—Tarric, his grip steady but heavy with sorrow.
"What… happened to her?" Arslan's voice was hoarse, breaking.
Ismere stepped forward, her eyes red, her face streaked with dirt and tears. "It was the lion demon," she said, her voice trembling. "She fought him… fought until the last breath. She saved us, Arslan."
The words cut into him like a blade. Arslan's hands shook as he pulled himself from Tarric's grip and dropped to his knees beside her. He gathered Nirela into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
Her body was cold, but he could almost imagine she'd open her eyes and tease him like always. Instead, silence pressed around them.
He bowed his head, his tears falling freely. The sounds of mourning—the quiet sobs of the Mythics, the whisper of the wind over the lake—wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud.
Hours later, under a grey, weeping sky, they buried her in the graveyard near the lake. The ground was soft from recent rain, the scent of wet earth heavy in the air. Each shovelful of soil sounded like a drumbeat of finality.
Arslan stood over her grave long after everyone else stepped away. His voice, low and broken, finally escaped him. "I shouldn't have been gone… This… all of this happened because of me."
As he stood there, the wind shifted. From deep within him, a voice—dark, calm, and ancient—echoed:
"You have to lose something… if you want anything."
Arslan closed his eyes, the words lingering like a shadow over his heart. The victory in Arcana now felt hollow. And as the grave lay still, so too did a part of him.