The world was ending, and Kael stood in the middle of it.
The heavens broke apart like broken glass, showering light and darkness upon the devastation below. Cities were consumed by flames. The mountains ran with blood. The screams of monsters and of the gods shrouded the quiet of the dead.
And yet… he stood.
Armor shattered, body shuddering, blade smeared with the blood of creations that ought never to exist. His katana smoldered feebly in his hand — a foreign reddish fire that even the gods dreaded. They referred to it as a myth. A curse. A sword never destined to be grasped by mortal fingers.
Yet Kael did utilize it.
He did not battle for power. Nor for glory.
He fought for them.
For the faces he could not protect. For the companions who had already fallen. For the fragile warmth he had once believed in.
His foe towered up above, a man shrouded in brilliant light, bow pulled back and aimed at his heart. Heaven itself leaned to that archer's bow.
And Kael did not waver.
I… remember this moment. His back to me, uncompromising even while the world tore itself in twain. The manner in which he grasped at his knife as if it was the sole absolute truth that remained anymore.
But I remember the way it finished too.
Regardless of how often I recap this story… Kael always dies here.