The Citadel trembled as the first blows fell.
Kaelen moved first, silver flame erupting from Lumenbrand, his blade carving through the darkness like a comet tearing the night sky. The very air hissed as his strike descended, a line of pure light splitting the hall in two.
Vorath didn't move.
Instead, Nox Obscura rose lazily, almost as if guided by the weight of inevitability rather than effort. The black steel caught Lumenbrand's strike, not with a clang, but a whisper — a sound like breath over a grave. The silver flame dimmed where the two blades met, as though light itself feared to linger near the abyss.
"You burn so brightly," Vorath murmured, his crimson eyes unblinking as Kaelen strained against him. "And yet… flames are meant to die."
Kaelen snarled, channeling his aura, the floor cracking beneath their feet. Seralyn's voice rose behind him, her staff aglow as she traced runes in the air, summoning wards and chains of radiant sigils.
Golden chains lashed out, coiling around Vorath's limbs, each link forged from words of light that predated the heavens. The Citadel screamed in protest, the whispers from the Throne of Skulls crescendoing into a frenzied chorus.
"…BREAK… BREAK… BREAK…"
Vorath tilted his head, studying the chains. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes — not surprise, not fear, but memory. Then, with a single motion, he twisted Nox Obscura in a circle, and the chains shattered like brittle glass, the light devoured into nothing.
Seralyn staggered, the backlash cracking through her wards. Kaelen lunged again, fury and desperation lending speed to his strike.
Vorath sidestepped, faster than their eyes could follow, and drove a single, precise kick into Kaelen's chest. The impact echoed like a thunderclap, hurling him across the hall into the cracked wall.
Seralyn barely raised her staff before Vorath's shadow split from his form, a living tendril of darkness that lashed toward her throat. Her wards flared, but the shadow slipped through, coiling like smoke. She felt it brush her skin — cold, not just in flesh, but deep, as if her soul itself were recoiling.
Vorath stood between them now, the faint blue glow of the skulls casting his features into a sharp, statuesque silhouette. There was no rage in him, no bloodlust. Only that cold inevitability.
Kaelen rose, blood trickling from his lip, his grip on Lumenbrand trembling but unbroken. Seralyn forced herself upright beside him, her staff flickering weakly. Together, they stood — but even they knew it was only a matter of time.
Vorath advanced, Nox Obscura trailing behind him like a blade of liquid night. The whispers of the Citadel reached a fever pitch, overlapping into one chilling proclamation:
"…Two souls… bearing light… the Throne will feed… tonight…"
Kaelen raised his sword, whispering a prayer through clenched teeth. Seralyn's lips moved in silence, channeling every last scrap of her will into a final ward.
Vorath raised his blade for the killing strike.
And then —
A voice. Soft. Familiar. Melodic.
Not from the hall, but from the depths of his mind.
"Vorath… enough. The hour is not yet come."
The Citadel froze. The whispers died. Even Nox Obscura's hum faltered, vibrating in protest.
The voice was more than sound; it was weight. It carried the warmth of a memory, the ache of a wound that had never healed, and the cold inevitability of something that should not exist.
"Vorath… please… don't."
His crimson eyes narrowed. His hand trembled, just for a heartbeat.
"Lyssara…" His voice was low, as though afraid to speak the name aloud. "Why do you speak now? Why do you haunt me only when—"
"You are not what they believe you to be… but neither are they what you think. This is not the way, Vorath… not yet."
Her words echoed like frost along the walls of his mind, distant yet piercing, as if from beyond the grave — or perhaps from the grave itself. No answer followed, no explanation, just the faint sensation of her presence, fading like warmth from a dying ember.
Vorath's grip on Nox Obscura loosened. The weapon whispered furiously, its voice a hiss of blood and shadow, but he ignored it.
With a slow, controlled breath, he let the tension bleed from his stance.
"Still you bind me… even in death," he murmured under his breath, almost as if speaking to himself.
Then, louder:
"Leave." His voice resonated through the Citadel like a tolling bell, deep and final. "Before I change my mind."
The Citadel's whispers faded into silence. The blue flames dimmed. And without another word, Vorath turned, ascending the steps back to the Throne of Skulls.
Kaelen hesitated, his blade still raised, but Seralyn touched his arm. Her voice was a whisper.
"Not now. We're not meant to die here… not yet."
The two retreated, the Citadel's doors groaning open as if pushed by unseen hands. Neither looked back.
As they vanished into the mist beyond, Vorath sank into his throne, the skulls' whispers resuming, softer now. He closed his eyes, Lyssara's voice still echoing faintly in the corners of his mind.
For the first time in centuries, the King of Shadows did not feel entirely alone.
But it was not comfort.
It was a reminder.