The wind howled across the frost-scarred cliffs of Artantica. Snow churned like restless spirits, and the Ice Fountain no longer shimmered with grace. Its once-pure waters dimmed under the weight of coming war. And war had indeed come.
The Watchers had gathered their forces, cloaked in the grey fury of desperation. From the frozen bridges of Noctharin to the whispering paths of the Hollow Waste, they marched. Their purpose was clear: to stop the chosen from breathing life back into the Syltharion, and to shatter the prophecy before it bound them all to fate's unyielding wheel.
As the first arrow flew, the land trembled.
Steel clashed. Howls echoed. Ice cracked beneath stampeding feet and fury-filled roars. The three ancient families—Myrelis Ariven, Karradon, and Kirenholme—stood shoulder to shoulder, the last line against both darkness and doubt.
Eryndor fought like a man torn between wrath and duty. Blood smeared his face as he battled Vareon, who stood fiercely in defense of his uncle, Morvane. Each strike between them sent sparks into the air and flurries into the wind.
"You defend a murderer," Eryndor growled, blades locked with Vareon's.
"You're the murderer!" Vareon snarled, pushing him back.
But something had shifted. The truth had already reached the council—Morvane's sins laid bare like bones beneath melted snow. And so, the ancient families turned. They raised arms not against Eryndor, but against the one who had deceived them all.
Morvane's face was unreadable. He called his men. Swords rose. Then came chaos. The Watchers, seeing the collapse of their influence, threw themselves into the storm. The battlefield cracked open with violence. Brother against brother. Family against fate.
Zelaira darted between clashing lines, staff humming with relic-light, her eyes blazing with determination. Kaelen fought beside her, blade wet with fire and snow. Ariel, fierce as a northern gale, fought back-to-back with the Ariven.
But the tide turned swiftly. Evil began to rise above the noise. For all their unity, the three families were faltering. Morvane's dark schemes had bought him time, and time had bred power.
Vareon's skill with the sword proved almost unmatched. With a final cry, he drove his blade deep into Eryndor's side. The protector fell to one knee, blood pouring across the ice.
The battlefield held its breath.
Morvane stepped forward, pride glowing in his eyes. "Now," he said softly to Vareon. "Give yourself to the Syltharion. Bleed into its heart and let our rule begin."
Vareon, trembling and bloodied, nodded. He stepped toward the basin of the Ice Fountain. The waters stirred faintly, hungry for sacrifice. He raised his blade. His hands shook.
But fate had not yet spoken its final word.
A blur cut through the cold. Kaelen.
With a cry that tore through every soul present, Kaelen leapt onto Vareon. The sword turned in their struggle, and with a single twist of fate, Vareon's hand drove the blade into Kaelen's chest.
The boy gasped.
Vareon's eyes widened with horror. His blade fell from his grip as Kaelen crumpled into his arms, blood soaking them both.
"No…" Vareon whispered. "No…"
Kaelen's lips parted, a ghost of a smile on them.
"She was my sister," he whispered. "And you… you loved her."
And then he was still.
The silence was unbearable.
Vareon trembled, realization dawning like a curse. He had taken the life of Seriane's brother. His hands, once proud with skill, now stained with unforgivable loss. And with that act, the werewolf curse awakened in him. He felt it crawl beneath his skin, howl in his blood.
He was no longer worthy.
The Syltharion would not accept the blood of a cursed soul.
Morvane's voice cracked through the stillness. "No… it cannot end like this!"
But it had already begun to end.
Wounded and gasping, Eryndor crawled to the edge of the basin. With a final breath, he plunged his own blade into his palm and let his blood spill into the frozen heart of the fountain.
The waters began to glow.
A song returned to the cave. Ancient, mournful, full of light. The Syltharion awakened, not with fire, but with peace.
Eryndor collapsed, the fountain pulsing gently around his fallen form. Light spiraled up toward the ceiling, spreading across Artantica. The balance had been restored, at the cost of the last protector.
Vareon fell to his knees beside Kaelen, trembling with grief.
"I never wanted this," he murmured.
He looked up once—at the sky, at the light, at what could have been.
And then, with the same sword he once carried with pride, he took his own life.
Morvane's scream tore through the cave, wild and broken. "This is not how it ends!"
But it had ended. Not with his will, nor by his hand. The fountain had chosen. The prophecy had closed.
And all that remained was silence.