Vael'tharir shifted on his cracked stone throne, scales dull and worn in the cavern's half-light. His breath came slow, rough as gravel scraping stone.
"Damn this cycle," he muttered, low and bitter. "No freedom here. Just a tool—whetstone for heroes' blades."
Footsteps echoed from the cavern's mouth.
She appeared again—sword loose at her side, eyes burning with quiet fire.
No words passed.
She stepped forward, slow, steady.
Steel slammed into scale—harsh and raw.
She stumbled, lips cracked, blood trickling down.
"Again," Vael'tharir growled, claws scraping stone.
Her hands shook as she pressed to the floor—cold, unforgiving—but she pushed up, breath ragged but steady.
"Again."
Days blurred. Battles piled up like broken stones.
Her wild swings grew precise. Her breath found rhythm.
Vael'tharir's fury cooled to sharp patience, his strikes measured and old.
"Why waste yourself on a losing fight?" he asked, voice rough.
She spat dust, voice cracked but firm.
"Because someday, it won't be."
Their blades sang slow, deliberate—a dance of wear and will.
She slipped past his guard once—blade biting a narrow crack in his scales.
A sharp snap echoed.
Vael'tharir staggered, muscles trembling in surprise.
She stood tall, breathing steady, eyes clear.
"You were never my enemy," she said, quiet but sure.
The cavern held its breath.
Vael'tharir's old eyes flickered—weariness mixed with something new.
He lowered his massive head; smoke curled from his nostrils.
She knelt, fingers tracing the cracked scale, skin stained with dirt and blood—fragile and fierce.
A long silence stretched between them—heavy with unspoken truths.
Her blade rose, calm and steady.
Steel pierced ancient flesh.
Silver light spilled from Vael'tharir's form, drifting like smoke through the cavern.
His gaze lingered—on her, the battered stone, the endless fight behind them.
Then, pulled by unseen hands, his spirit rose beyond stone and cycle.
The cavern held still.
Outside, wind stirred fallen leaves—soft whispers fading to silence.