The Archon Tirael's body hit the ground with a sound like thunder.
Or, what was left of his body. His once-golden wings had withered to blackened husks, his radiant spear shattered into a thousand dim sparks. His chest bore a single wound — not deep, not wide, but absolute. The strike from Nox Obscura had not just pierced his heart; it had erased it, leaving a void that consumed what little light remained in him.
Vorath stood over the corpse, his silver hair untouched by the soot and gore swirling around him, his expression calm… almost bored.
"An Archon," he said softly, glancing at the silent battlefield. The Vanguard stood frozen, their chants strangled in their throats. "Do you know how long it has been since one of your precious Archons fell on this soil? Centuries. And yet here he lies, another skull for my throne."
He crouched, running a finger along the edge of the wound. The shadows in his veins flared faintly, and for a moment, the battlefield swore they saw the Archon's soul—a struggling, blinding light—pulled screaming into Vorath's hand.
"Don't worry, Tirael," Vorath whispered to the dying essence. "You'll serve me far better as fuel."
The light winked out.
Vorath turned his gaze to the heavens, where the rift still bled radiance. "Send another. Or better yet, come yourselves. You've been hiding for far too long."
His voice carried across the plain, loud enough for even Kaelen's distant strike team to hear.
Kaelen froze, crouched behind a jagged spire of black stone, watching the Sovereign casually devour the soul of a being worshiped as divine.
"Gods save us," Veyra whispered. "He… he's eating them now."
But Kaelen wasn't just watching. He heard him. Not just the words, but the thoughts underneath, like a second voice that slithered through his mind.
"Does it terrify you, little blade? It should. This is what your masters fear. This is why they hide behind you instead of facing me themselves."
Kaelen gritted his teeth, clutching Lumenbrand. "Get out of my head."
The voice chuckled. "Ah… you can hear me. How quaint. Tell me, mortal, did they mention what I was before they painted me a monster? Or are they saving that for when they're done using you?"
Kaelen's pulse quickened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
No answer—only a soft, amused whisper. "Find the ruins below their sanctuary. When you see what sleeps there… you'll understand why they need a mortal executioner."
Then the connection snapped, leaving only the roar of battle.
On the field, Vorath lifted his blade, the black mist around Nox Obscura writhing like a living thing. Velira emerged from the shadow of the Colossus, her crimson eyes gleaming.
"You're toying with them again, my lord," she said. "You could end this in a moment."
Vorath's lips curved into a faint, sharp smile. "And rob myself of their despair? No, Velira. Let them hope. Let them believe they can win. Hope tastes so much sweeter when it rots."
Serikar approached, helm under his arm. "The Vanguard is breaking, but a mortal unit infiltrates the southern wastes. They move toward Forge Kharith."
Vorath's gaze flicked south. His silver eyes narrowed—not with fear, but with a spark of… amusement.
"A mortal," he murmured. "The gods' little knife." He chuckled softly. "Bring him to me alive. I wish to see what sort of toy they've sent this time."
Night fell, though the sky was still cracked with veins of holy light. Kaelen and his team reached Forge Kharith—an obsidian monolith jutting from the earth, pulsing like a living heart. Its spires exhaled black mist that coiled into the sky.
As they planted the gods' explosive charms, Kaelen felt the air grow colder. The shadows deepened unnaturally, and the sound of the battlefield miles away seemed to vanish.
Then, from the darkness, Vorath stepped forward.
Not running. Not rushing. Just walking, as though the wastes themselves parted for him.
His silver gaze fell on Kaelen first. He didn't even look at the others.
"So," Vorath said, voice smooth and almost conversational. "This is the blade."
Veyra raised her weapon. "Scatter! Run!"
Vorath flicked his wrist. A wave of shadow erupted from Nox Obscura, sweeping the mercenaries aside like leaves in a storm. They didn't scream. The shadows stole their voices before they could.
Kaelen was left standing. The silver dagger at his side burned, reacting to Vorath's presence.
Vorath's smile widened, arrogant and almost… pleased. "Ah. Lumenbrand. They still cling to their little relics, thinking it can save them."
He circled Kaelen slowly, hands clasped behind his back, as if inspecting a weapon rather than a man.
"Do you know what they did to me, mortal?" he asked softly. "I was like you once. A weapon. A savior, they called me. Until I became inconvenient."
Kaelen's grip on the dagger tightened. "What are you saying?"
Vorath stopped, standing a breath away, his silver eyes burning faintly.
"I'm saying," he murmured, "that when you've killed me, they'll bury you next to my corpse. Just as they buried the last dozen 'chosen ones.' And then, when your blood soaks the soil, they'll take you… and make another me."
For a heartbeat, Kaelen felt a chill—not from Vorath, but from the weight of those words.
Before he could respond, Vorath stepped back, resting Nox Obscura on his shoulder.
"Run along, little blade," he said with a grin, his voice a silken threat. "Tell your masters I'll come for them soon. But not yet. Not until I decide which of their skulls will look best beside yours."
And with that, he turned, the shadows swallowing him as though he'd never been there.
Kaelen stood alone in the wastes, the silver dagger trembling faintly in his hand.
For the first time, he wondered if the gods were really on the side of the living.