Chapter 9
The chains that bound the Purge Knights to their past shattered in a blaze of golden light, a final echo of their conquered fears. They had faced their illusions, endured the twisted memories, and felt the oppressive weight of Holon's darkness recede. Yet the Valkyrie was not Azre, not entirely. Her consciousness remained a prisoner, locked deep within, while a godlike form of judgment and fury moved through her borrowed flesh. Executioner blazed with molten light, and golden feathers, each a shard of divine energy, scattered across the scorched battlefield.
Rowan and Thalia lay broken, bloodied, and trembling. The golden aura that radiated from the Valkyrie washed over them, a wave of searing warmth. Without a word, the flames licked at their wounds, knitting torn flesh and easing the agony that gripped their muscles like a vise. Rowan gasped as his broken arm straightened, the searing pain replaced by a deep, resonant warmth. Thalia's bow clattered to the ground, her body ceasing its violent tremors, her lungs drawing clean, steady breaths.
The other knights stirred as well. Nilda rose from the jagged earth, sweat and blood painting streaks across her face. Her hands, once bound by phantom chains of guilt and shame, moved freely, testing their newfound liberation. Eldhar's gauntlets felt heavy in his calloused hands, his chest heaving as he took in the Valkyrie's serene, yet distant presence. Aven remained on one knee, his breaths shallow and ragged, haunted by the fading visions of his wife and child, the chains that bound him to their deaths now dissolved into nothingness.
Golden feathers drifted through the air, falling like snow over the ravaged battlefield. Each shimmered with a warmth that carried the promise of life, of survival, yet also a hint of something… else. Even in their exhaustion, the knights could sense the profound shift, the breaking of the bonds that had held them captive. Their bodies were free, yet their spirits still trembled, shaken by the lingering echoes of their torment.
Holon staggered from the forest edge, crimson eyes blazing with a manic intensity. His tattered cloak and scorched armor bore testament to the ferocity of the battle. Blood, black and viscous, streaked his face and chest, a grotesque mask of defiance. His grin was feral, twisted by pain and fury, a predator cornered but unbowed. He saw the Valkyrie standing unmoving in the center of the battlefield, wings folded tightly around her body, golden light spilling across the desecrated ground.
"Yes… stronger now," he hissed, his voice raspy with exertion. "But that light is not yours. It belongs to the monsters within, the ancient hunger you cannot control. You are nothing but an insect, puppet, with borrowed fire."
He raised a skeletal hand, sending shadows sprawling toward the Valkyrie like grasping claws. They twisted through the air, seeking to penetrate her mind, to exploit any weakness. Holon's magic was insidious, a viper seeking a chink in the armor. But the Valkyrie's form was no longer merely Azre; her consciousness was shielded, protected by the divine presence within. The godlike being inside her body was complete, sealed, and invulnerable to Holon's intrusion.
Rage consumed Holon, a wildfire in his veins. He clenched his fists, the bones cracking under the strain, and tore at the air around him, opening a rift of pure, suffocating void. From the swirling darkness, a massive scythe emerged, its blade jagged and pulsating with corrupted purple energy. Veins of skulls and dark blood ran along its obsidian shaft, a macabre tapestry of death. The weapon hummed with lethal intent, whispering promises of despair and oblivion.
"This is Shadowrend," Holon proclaimed, his voice shaking the very air around them like a thunderclap. "The bringer of blood, skulls, and death. None shall survive its edge. Not even gods."
He dashed forward, a blur of motion, swinging the scythe in a deadly, sweeping arc. The Valkyrie raised Executioner, the blade igniting with a blinding corona of white and golden flames. Sparks erupted in a shower of light as shadow met divine force. The scythe was deflected effortlessly, the force of the blow sending a shockwave through the air, yet Holon pressed his attack, slashing without pause, each swing faster, more desperate than the last.
The Valkyrie did not falter. Her strikes flowed like water, meeting every blow with a precise parry or deflection. Each swing of Executioner unleashed a blinding radiance, forcing Holon to backpedal, his shadows struggling to coalesce in the presence of such overwhelming power.
Holon sank to one knee, the effort of his attacks taking its toll. He wove shadows into phantom hands, grasping at the Valkyrie's limbs, seeking to bind her. She moved with impossible grace and precision, unaffected, her divine instincts anticipating each attack. He lunged again, his scythe glowing with corrupted purple energy, slashing with the intent to cleave her in two. Executioner met the strike, white flames erupting like molten iron, cutting deep into the shadows, leaving Holon staggering backward, his face contorted in a mask of pain.
Desperation burned in his eyes, a flicker of fear beneath the madness. He grasped the corpse of a fallen soldier, a mangled husk of flesh and bone, and hurled it toward her, a crude shield to block the Valkyrie's strikes. She raised Executioner, the divine flames cutting through the corpse as if it were mere illusion, leaving Holon exposed and vulnerable.
Holon's grin faltered, replaced by a feral panic. He plunged his hands into his own chest, ignoring the spray of blood, and pulled forth a black, crystal-like stone. He hurled it forward, and it exploded in mid-air, unleashing a poisonous miasma, thick and corrosive. Leaves rotted instantly where the mist touched, turning to black, crumbling ash, and the stench of decay and death filled the clearing, choking the air. The miasma spread quickly, a creeping tide of oblivion.
The Purge Knights staggered, coughing and gasping, their strength rapidly draining away. One by one, they collapsed to their knees, their bodies weakening, poisoned by Holon's final, cruel act of defiance. The Valkyrie remained standing, untouched by the miasma, her golden wings radiating an impenetrable light, a beacon in the encroaching darkness. Her gaze swept the battlefield, calm and unyielding, as the knights around her struggled for breath, clutching at their throats, their bodies wracked with agony, teetering on the brink of death. The poison worked quickly, burning from the inside out.
Holon's laughter echoed through the forest, deep and menacing, laced with a hint of desperation. For the first time, he truly feared death, but he would not yield, not yet. He staggered back, poisoned, bleeding, shadows clinging to his tattered form like shrouds. His grin turned grim, a promise of future torment. "This… will not end here," he hissed, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand nightmares. With a final, defiant glare, he dissolved into the shadows of the forest, leaving his miasma to slowly suffocate those who dared oppose him.
The knights tried to move, to stand, to chase him, but the poison tore through their bodies like a living fire. Limbs weakened, lungs burned, and vision blurred. Each struggled against the invisible chains of death, their hearts hammering against the inevitability of the miasma's grasp.
The Valkyrie's form did not move. She remained at the center of the battlefield, a silent sentinel of light and judgment, her wings unfurled, her blade glowing with the cold brilliance of a god. She watched as the knights struggled and coughed, their faces etched with pain and fear, and she did not intervene. Her presence was absolute, untouchable, yet merciless in its judgment. Was this a test? A trial by fire? Or simply indifference?
Golden feathers continued to fall around the battlefield, reflecting off the swirling, poisoned mist. Their ethereal glow did not heal the knights; instead, it emphasized the stark divide between mortal suffering and divine power. The Purge Knights writhed in the deathly fog, their exhaustion and pain nearly overwhelming, yet they still clung to life, driven by a primal instinct to survive. Their spirits were battered but not entirely broken, their minds struggling to reconcile the horror they faced with the fleeting hope that Azre had brought them moments ago.
The forest was silent except for the hiss of the poison and the faint flutter of golden feathers. The Valkyrie's gaze swept over every knight, assessing, observing, unmoved by their suffering. Her form radiated a calm power, flawless and terrifying, the embodiment of judgment. Holon had unleashed every ounce of his malice, yet the Valkyrie stood unchallenged, a god incarnate in mortal flesh.
Rowan struggled to draw a breath, his chest burning as if filled with molten lead. Beside him, Thalia coughed violently, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her body trembling uncontrollably. Nilda and Aven were on their knees, the poison sapping their strength, yet even in their weakness, the light of the Valkyrie above them filled them with a strange, conflicting sense of awe and dread.
They were alive, yet death hung so close, a suffocating presence. The battlefield felt suspended in time, caught between life and oblivion. Holon's escape through the shadows of the forest left only the poisonous mist behind, a lingering testament to his cruelty, yet the Valkyrie did not move to aid them. She simply stood, wings folded slowly around her body, golden eyes piercing through the haze, watching the knights as their strength ebbed away.
The Purge Knights, struggling against the poison, barely clinging to life, looked toward the Valkyrie, who remained unflinching, her figure illuminated by molten-gold light. She did not speak. She did not act. She only observed. Holon had escaped, the miasma spread through the clearing, and the knights were at the mercy of the divine being who had once been Azre, now a godlike Valkyrie standing above their suffering. Hope, it seemed, was a double-edged sword.