Ashes of the Radiant Shield – Return to Drakareth
The skies no longer bled.
The echo of battle, once a relentless roar, had dulled into silence over the broken ridge-lines of northern Seraveth. Ashes floated gently through the upper air like gray snow, falling across divine wreckage and shattered ley-lines where once the gods had clashed.
There was no celebration. No cry of triumph. Only the hush that followed when light failed—and only purpose remained.
Alter stood motionless atop a fractured floating island, his wings of sovereign flame half-furled, his right gauntlet still trembling from the final blow. The runes along his exposed left arm dimmed one by one, flickering like guttering stars. The molten veins in the sky had begun to cool, but the memory of Arkhorel's barrier—his final act—still shimmered faintly in the clouds above.
Lysava knelt near the scorched earth where the Mirrorflame Calamity had fallen, hands clasped, thorns receding from her forearms as if mourning. Varnuun stood with arms crossed, breathing hard through gritted teeth, golden blood seeping down one leg where a chunk of divine steel had been embedded during the blast.
None of them spoke.
Because there were no words to meet the weight of divine sacrifice.
Alter finally turned to face them, his voice low, yet resolute. "He held the line."
Varnuun exhaled sharply. "He was the line."
Lysava bowed her head. "He stayed behind because he believed we would finish what he started."
Alter's gaze lifted to the still-flickering remnants of Arkhorel's divine shield—now just a shimmer clinging to cloud. "Then we will."
A divine portal opened behind them—an arc of translucent gold fringed with shimmering draconic script. On the other side, Drakareth awaited. Not just the stone towers or the battlefield citadels—but the Council of Kings, the surviving celestial soldiers, and the world below that still trembled under the threat of apocalypse.
The War Gods gathered, flanking Alter now not just as divine peers, but with a silent, unspoken recognition: he was the one the tide now followed.
Takayoshi awaited them on the other side. So did Soryn. And Selene.
And the children.
Alter stepped forward. Behind him, Varnuun lifted the broken crest of Arkhorel's divine seal and cradled it with reverence, before vanishing into the portal's light.
Lysava followed next, wreaths of green and silver curling in her wake.
Alter was last.
He turned once more to the battlefield—the ruined horizon where the wind still whispered with voices long silenced. "Your shield stood, Arkhorel," he whispered. "So now I'll be the sword."
Then he stepped through the light.
And the skies, for the first time in hours, knew stillness.
The sky above Veyr'Zhalar was quiet.
Not in dread. But in waiting.
Above the Crown Citadel, the wind curled gently around the volcanic spires of the Aetherflame Palace, stirring the banners etched with the twin crests of flame and storm. On the highest terrace—the one reserved for divine observation—a crowd had gathered, their gazes fixed on the golden shimmer rippling into form beyond the far horizon.
A portal.
One of divine signature.
Selene stepped forward first, holding both twins in her arms, flanked by Queen Elanra and Princess Alyxthia. The 14 Commanders lined the arc behind them, still armored, but with expressions that mirrored the gravity of what was to come.
When the portal fully bloomed and three figures stepped out—each bearing wounds, scorch marks, and weariness that reached beyond the body—the terrace grew silent.
Alter emerged last.
His sovereign aura was dimmed, and streaks of dried blood ran down the gaps in his cracked armor. Starsever rested magnetized at his back, not glowing, but silent as if in mourning. He walked slowly, shoulders square but heavy—each step measured, not with exhaustion, but with the weight of memory.
Varnuun came to a stop beside him and lifted the broken seal.
A fragment of Arkhorel's divine crest, cleaved down the center, burned into the minds of all present.
Takayoshi was the first to move. He stepped down from the upper terrace, eyes narrowed, fists clenched—but not in fury. In reverence. He bowed low before the crest.
"He died as a War God should," Takayoshi said softly. "Shielding the path so others could strike."
Alter gave the smallest nod. "He knew the last demon would detonate. And chose to hold."
Queen Elanra stepped forward, placing a hand over her heart. Her voice trembled.
"Arkhorel stood beneath these very stars during the first demon invasion, long before my time. He defended the mortal veil during the First Eclipse War. And now…"
She lowered her gaze.
"He falls so the next age may stand."
Selene met Alter's eyes then.
No words passed.
But the emotion in hers—the tear she blinked back as one of the twins reached toward Alter with tiny fingers—spoke everything. Relief. Pain. And quiet pride.
The child cooed, then smiled as Alter approached.
The silence broke only when Ryvar muttered, "I always assumed War Gods were untouchable."
Alyxthia's eyes remained fixed on the broken crest. "Even the divine are not beyond sacrifice."
From the back, Blazebloom wiped her eyes with the inside of her gauntlet and muttered, "Couldn't he just have jumped through a portal like a normal immortal? Dammit…"
Darius grunted. "He chose the harder end. The nobler one."
Mira turned to Selene. "The way Alter landed, the way they carried that seal… he knew the whole time, didn't he?"
Selene nodded once.
"He felt it the moment it happened."
Soryn stepped beside her now, folding his arms across his chest.
"He was the shield," he said quietly. "So the sword could fly."
The terrace remained silent as Varnuun stepped forward and placed the broken crest upon a ceremonial stone—where divine honors were to be inscribed. Golden runes shimmered around it. The stone would remain there until the war ended.
A memorial to a War God who gave everything.
Alter stood before it, unmoving.
For a moment, the sun pierced through the clouds above. A single shaft of light illuminated the crest—and nothing else.
No bell tolled.
No fanfare rang.
But all of Drakareth knew, by pulse and by wind, that a guardian of the heavens had fallen.
And the war was not yet done.
The war drums had fallen silent.
For one night, no divine portals flared. No dragon horns cried across the sky. The balcony lanterns of Aetherflame Palace were dimmed, their golden glow casting soft rings upon obsidian walls. And beyond the still-curtained windows, the skies of Drakareth shimmered not with divine auras, but with stars—uncut, untouched, and quiet.
Inside the high chamber, Alter stood barefoot in the soft twilight, the scent of lavender incense curling faintly through the air.
His armor had long since been removed.
His sovereign aura was dimmed to nothing.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed the world to fall quiet.
Selene leaned against the bedpost, already dressed in silver night-robes, her hair flowing like moonlight across her shoulders. In her arms, the twins were nestled together—sleepy, restless, their little hands twitching against each other's fingers.
"They kept looking for you," Selene whispered. "Even before the battle ended. They don't speak yet… but they knew. They always do."
Alter approached, kneeling by the bedside as if in reverence to something higher than the throne he once carried.
To them.
To this.
He reached out and brushed a hand along the curls of his daughter's hair, then across the barely-formed dragon-scale markings along his son's collarbone—tiny, soft, no bigger than a thumbprint.
"They feel the flame," he murmured. "Even now."
Selene looked at him closely. "And you? What do you feel?"
He was quiet for a long time.
Then— "Stillness," he said. "For the first time since I ascended. Since I broke the chains. Since I awakened… I finally feel… like I belong here."
Selene smiled gently. "Because of them?"
"Because of all of you."
He shifted up and sat beside her on the bed, letting his hand linger on her waist. She leaned into him without hesitation, her head resting on his shoulder. The twins, still nestled between them, squirmed softly—then settled again.
"They're strong," Selene whispered. "Even without words, I can feel it. The way they react to energy… the way they calm when you return…"
"I've seen that," Alter said softly. "They will inherit more than blood, Selene. They carry echoes of both realms. Mortal. Divine. Dragon. And…"
He paused, then looked down at them with a rare softness.
"…they carry peace. Even in a world that's never given them peace to begin with."
Selene's hand found his.
They stayed like that for a long while—watching the twins, listening to the silence. Outside, the wind carried no warnings. No visions. No cries of war. Only the rustling of high banners and the creaking of old palace stone as the volcano slumbered beneath them.
Later that night, the twins curled into Alter's side without a sound—one hand on his chest, the other across his forearm. Selene wrapped herself along his other flank, her breath steady, her heartbeat a calming rhythm beneath her skin.
Alter lay still for a long time, eyes half-lidded, watching the ceiling's slow shifting glow as starlight filtered through the rune-woven glass.
The warmth of their bodies, the pressure of tiny hands… the soft exhale of sleep beside him…
No battlefield, no crown of flame, no demon god had ever felt like this.
This was his world.
And he would not let it burn.
Morning over Veyr'Zhalar arrived without fanfare.
There was no bell to signal the hour. No drills, no marching regiments, no flare of divine messengers. Just a quiet, early golden light that spilled across the volcanic ridges, softening even the harsh blackstone of the capital's high terraces.
Soryn stood atop one of those terraces alone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver robes caught in the breeze.
He held a blade in his hands—not Starsever, not a divine weapon—but one of the Dragoons' forged long-katanas, molded in the likeness of the Sovereign's own. A copy, yes. But not a replica. It bore his mark. And the weight was familiar.
He had not slept.
He hadn't needed to.
From his vantage, he could see the whole valley, where the Dragoons were gathering again, forming in squads to reorganize—bandaged, some limping, all quiet. But proud.
Bootsteps approached behind him. Familiar. Unhurried.
Takayoshi stepped into view, arms folded, his long coat caught in the same breeze. His face unreadable, but his presence calm as a mountain shadow.
"You're awake," he said without needing to ask.
"So are you," Soryn replied.
"Couldn't sleep," Takayoshi said, glancing at the blade in Soryn's hands. "I always forget how thin the line is before a final war."
Soryn nodded. "How are they?"
"The frontline survivors? Rattled. But focused." Takayoshi stepped closer, tilting his head. "You're not going down to the barracks?"
"I will," Soryn said. "Eventually. I just… wanted to feel this. The stillness. Before the storm."
Takayoshi looked out toward the horizon. "Enjoy it. It's the last stillness we'll get."
From the lower courtyard, a roar of laughter suddenly echoed upward—familiar, mismatched voices layered in both teasing and awe.
The 14 Commanders had gathered.
Blazebloom was already up on the dragon statue's back, arms crossed like a queen. "—I still say if they can slay a demon god with synchronized Sky Piercers, I can do it solo with my boots tied!"
Mira snorted. "You couldn't even synchronize your socks."
Finn, beside her, quietly muttered, "She doesn't wear socks."
"Exactly!" Blazebloom barked, triumphant, completely missing the point.
Darius was sharpening his gauntlets with the edge of a shield. "They may not outrank us, but the Dragoons earned their name."
Sorei Windshaper adjusted her cloak. "You mean the fact they made the world stutter when they struck?"
Revyn Mistclaw leaned against a pillar, watching the others with a half-smile. "Can't fake that kind of trauma response. They didn't just kill. They remembered."
Ilyra Faen stepped up beside him, arms folded. "Selene says some of them cry in their sleep. They've been changed."
Caelum Dray, ever the observant one, sighed. "We were trained to lead legions. They were trained to survive as gods fell."
Veyna Lux chuckled. "I don't care how graceful they are. The next one who slices a mountain in half during sparring is paying the repair bill."
"Or they teach us how," Thorne Ironstride grunted, flexing his fingers. "I'd like to split a mountain."
"Focus, idiots," Selene Virellia cut through them all with a glare—but even her voice held warmth. "Tomorrow, we go to war. Today… we honor them. And ourselves."
Blazebloom raised a hand. "We could prank them."
"No," said everyone in unison.
From the upper terrace, Soryn let out a breath through his nose. "They haven't changed a bit."
Takayoshi allowed a small smile. "Good."
Soryn looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because they remind us of what we're fighting to protect."