Damen stood at the edge of the ruined battlefield, the scent of blood and burnt metal still thick in the air. The sky above Valtor was a dull shade of gray, as if the heavens themselves mourned the destruction left in the wake of the war. Bodies lay scattered across the war-torn fields, some unrecognizable, others frozen in expressions of agony. Yet, despite the carnage, the banners of victory flew high over the capital, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Damen's heart.
He should have felt relief. The Veil was restored. The Shadow General was no more. Valtor was safe.
And yet, Zyra was gone.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. Her last words echoed in his mind, a ghostly whisper carried by the wind: Do it. The moment he plunged the blade into her chest, the rift had sealed, and the darkness had dissipated. But at what cost? The love of his life had perished, and he had been the one to end her.
The weight of his decision pressed against his soul. Every breath felt heavier, every heartbeat slower. Around him, the surviving soldiers of Valtor moved through the field, collecting bodies of both allies and enemies alike. Whispers of mourning filled the air, blending with the rustling of tattered banners and the crackling remnants of fire from broken war machines.
"Your Highness," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Elder Mireya approached, her silver robes streaked with blood. The usually composed elder looked weary, her piercing gaze filled with something he had rarely seen—uncertainty. "We must return to the palace. The people await their king."
Damen turned away from the battlefield, his expression cold. "I am not their king."
"The city sees you as their savior," she insisted. "With your father preparing to consolidate his rule, you must act swiftly."
His father. King Aldric had remained absent for most of the battle, only appearing in its final moments to claim victory. Damen had sensed something off about him—his indifference to the destruction, his calculated smile as the kingdom's enemies fell. A pit of unease settled in his stomach.
"The people may see me as a hero, but I do not feel like one," Damen muttered as they walked toward the waiting soldiers. "I killed the only person who mattered."
Mireya studied him for a moment before speaking. "Then make her sacrifice mean something."
The streets of Valtor were alive with celebration, but Damen felt suffocated by the cheers. People threw petals in his path, calling him the Savior of the Realms, but every shout of victory felt like another dagger to his soul. He moved through the crowd in a daze, his mind replaying Zyra's final moments over and over.
Despite the joyous cries, Damen could hear the hushed whispers beneath them. Questions. Doubts. He caught snippets of conversations as he passed.
"He doesn't look like a hero."
"They say he killed the hybrid girl. The one who fought beside him."
"Some say she was a traitor. Others say she saved us all."
The words cut deeper than any blade. He knew that, to many, the truth was already being twisted into legend, shaped by the tongues of those who had not been there.
At the palace gates, King Aldric awaited, adorned in golden armor that gleamed under the setting sun. His father smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.
"My son," Aldric said grandly, opening his arms as if to embrace him. Damen did not move. The king's gaze flickered with something unreadable before he dropped his hands. "Valtor owes you its future. The war is over, and now we rebuild."
Damen's jaw tightened. "You speak as though you fought beside us."
Aldric's smile remained, but his eyes darkened. "I fought in my own way. Leadership is its own battlefield."
Something about his words sent a chill down Damen's spine. There was more at play here than he could see, and it unnerved him.
That night, a feast was held in Damen's honor, though the revelry felt hollow. The grand hall of the palace was illuminated by thousands of flickering torches, their flames casting long shadows along the gilded walls. Lords and generals raised their goblets, toasting to victory. But Damen felt none of the warmth of their praise.
As the celebration continued into the night, Damen withdrew to the palace towers. He stood on the balcony, staring at the vast horizon. He had won the battle, but the war inside him raged on. He had lost Zyra. He had lost himself.
And in the depths of his grief, he did not see the shadow flickering in the distance.
A presence long thought dead.
A whisper carried by the wind.
"I am not done yet."
The wind howled against the stone walls of the palace as Damen retreated to his chambers. Sleep did not come easily. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—Zyra's piercing gaze, the way her lips had parted as she whispered Do it before the blade sank into her heart. The warmth of her blood on his hands. The horror in her eyes, not from fear, but acceptance.
A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.
"Come in."
Mireya entered, her expression grim. She carried a scroll, its seal marked with the insignia of the High Council. Damen sat up, rubbing his temples. "More politics?"
"You need to read this," she said, handing it to him.
He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. As his eyes scanned the words, his blood ran cold.
A disturbance has been detected near the Veil. The Shadow Realm stirs.
Damen's grip tightened on the paper. He could feel the weight of its meaning settle over him like a suffocating shroud.
The war was supposed to be over.
And yet, it seemed, the shadows had other plans.