The cavern yawned around them like the hollow ribcage of some long-dead titan, a place where echoes lingered longer than life. The floor was littered with the broken remnants of the skirmish that had brought them here — fallen weapons, shattered shields, smears of blood marking the path of desperation. The stench of smoke and rust clung to every breath.
Aric's hand shook as he held his sword aloft. Hours of fighting had drained him to the marrow, but the enemy that loomed before him had strength to spare. The warlord's massive frame was encased in jagged plates of iron, darkened with soot and scarred by countless battles. His weapon — an enormous cleaver forged from black steel — rested across his shoulder, as though the burden of its weight meant nothing to him.
Beside Aric, Lyra stood hunched over her staff. Her silver hair, usually radiant, clung to her sweat-streaked skin, her pale features ghostly in the torchlight. Every spell she cast had taken something from her, and still she pressed forward, unwavering. She had always been the steady flame in his darkness, the voice that whispered of hope when he wanted to drown in silence.
The warlord's voice broke the stillness. Deep, resonant, brimming with cruel amusement. "So this is it? The last line of defense? A tired swordsman and a girl with fading light? Pathetic."
Aric gritted his teeth. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed, but retreat was unthinkable. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade and stepped forward. "We will stop you."
The warlord's laughter was thunderous. "You? You've already lost."
And then he moved.
The strike came faster than Aric expected. The colossal blade whistled through the air, descending with the force of a collapsing tower. Aric barely raised his sword in time. Steel clashed with a screech that shook the cavern, sparks cascading like falling stars. The shock nearly tore his arms from their sockets, sending him staggering back.
"Aric!" Lyra raised her staff, her voice trembling as she forced light into being. A shimmering ward flared between them and the warlord, catching the next blow for a single heartbeat — and then it shattered like brittle glass.
The follow-up strike swept sideways, slamming into Lyra before Aric could move.
Her cry was sharp, broken — the sound of ribs snapping beneath the weight of steel. She was thrown across the ground, her staff spinning from her grasp. When she landed, blood stained her robes, dark and spreading fast.
"Lyra!" Aric's sword fell from his hand as he rushed to her side. He dropped to his knees, pulling her against him before her head struck the ground. Her breaths came ragged and shallow, blood bubbling at her lips. Her eyes, usually so bright, flickered dimly as they tried to focus on him.
He pressed a trembling hand against her wound. Hot blood welled between his fingers. His vision blurred with panic. "Stay with me, please. Don't you dare leave me."
Her hand, frail and shaking, found his wrist. She forced the words through clenched teeth. "Don't… stop… Aric."
Her voice was breaking, but her will remained. Even as pain dragged her down, she refused surrender.
Behind them, the warlord's laughter rolled through the chamber like a cruel storm. "So fragile," he mocked. "Was this the light that gave you hope? See how easily it shatters. When she dies, you will break, as all things break before me."
Aric froze. The words pierced deeper than any blade. He thought of every face he had failed to save, every companion who had fallen at his side, every innocent crushed by the tide of war. All of it crashed upon him at once, a tide of grief he could no longer hold back.
Something inside him fractured.
He clutched Lyra's hand to his chest, his voice trembling with anguish. "You have sinned."
The warlord tilted his head, smirk faltering.
Aric rose. His body shook as shadows spilled from his skin like smoke. His voice deepened, splitting into echoes, as though thousands of mourners spoke through him at once.
"Now you will face judgement."
The cavern shifted. The air thickened, heavy with sorrow. Torches sputtered, their flames dimming under the weight of grief. The warlord faltered as invisible chains of despair coiled around him, slowing his steps, chilling his breath.
Shadows swirled around Aric, hardening into armor. Blackened plates fused to his chest and shoulders, each etched with the visages of the fallen — fleeting faces of those he had lost, captured in eternal lament. His arms and legs were bound in sorrow-forged steel, jagged and mournful. A helm sealed over his head, its visor sculpted into the mask of endless weeping.
When his eyes opened beneath the mask, pale light blazed within them — not fire, not magic, but pure grief made manifest.
The warlord stepped back. "What are you?"
Aric raised his hand. From his palm, sorrow condensed into a blade of obsidian light. Its edge dripped with liquid shadow, each drop whispering with the voices of the dead. His voice thundered, resonant with the grief of countless souls:
"I am the weight of every life you've broken. I am the grief you thought forgotten. I am sorrow… and I am your end."
The warlord roared, rallying his courage, and charged. His massive blade cleaved the air, descending like the judgment of gods.
Aric met it.
The clash split the cavern, sparks igniting in a storm. Yet where before Aric had buckled beneath such strength, now he stood unshaken. His sorrow-forged blade met the warlord's steel with unyielding force, and the ground itself seemed to tremble in his defense.
The warlord struck again, and again, each blow wilder than the last. But Aric matched him step for step, sorrow wrapping his movements in inevitability. His blade cut with the weight of grief itself, a pressure that bent the enemy's armor, cracked his stance, and drove him backward.
The cavern rang with their struggle — steel on sorrow, fury against despair. With every clash, the warlord's movements slowed. His arms dragged as though unseen chains bound them. His chest heaved, his breath ragged, each inhalation choked by grief not his own.
"You feel it," Aric said, his voice resonant within the helm. "The sorrow of every soul you've destroyed. Their pain weighs upon you now."
The warlord snarled, straining against the weight. "I… am… strength!" He swung, desperate, his cleaver a blur.
Aric sidestepped, sorrow flowing with him. His blade cut deep across the warlord's chest. Armor screamed, cracking. The warlord staggered, his laugh now tinged with fear.
From the floor, Lyra's dim gaze followed him. Through the haze of pain, she saw not a man but an avatar of sorrow, terrible and radiant. Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered his name, though her voice was too faint to reach him.
The battle raged on. Sparks lit the cavern as Aric pressed forward. Each strike carried not only steel but memory — the cries of the fallen, the weight of loss given form. The warlord fought with fury, but fury could not endure the endless press of grief.
At last, Aric's blade shattered the cleaver. The sound echoed like a death knell. The warlord reeled back, weaponless, his armor fractured.
Aric raised his sorrow-forged sword, his voice breaking into thunder. "This is judgement."
He struck.
The blade pierced through iron and flesh, sorrow surging into the warlord's body. The giant convulsed, his roar twisting into a scream as memories not his own flooded him — every life he had ended, every cry he had silenced, every drop of blood he had spilled. His knees buckled beneath the weight.
Aric leaned close, voice low and merciless. "You cannot escape their sorrow. It will crush you as you crushed them."
The warlord fell to his knees, his scream dissolving into a strangled sob. His armor cracked apart, fragments scattering across the floor. His colossal frame slumped forward, lifeless, eyes wide with horror.
Silence followed. Heavy, absolute.
Aric stood above the corpse, his armor weeping shadows, his blade dripping sorrow. The weight of it pressed upon the cavern, upon Lyra, upon himself. He looked down at his hands and saw not flesh but grief made solid.
Behind him, Lyra stirred. Her faint voice broke the silence. "Aric…"
He turned, and for a moment the mask of sorrow cracked, just enough to reveal his eyes. The pale light flickered, replaced by raw fear — fear not of the warlord, but of what he had become.
He rushed back to her side, kneeling once more, cradling her carefully. His armor softened at her touch, shadows dimming as her trembling hand brushed his.
"You're still… you," she whispered, though her eyes were heavy with doubt.
Aric did not answer. His sorrow had given him strength, but it had also revealed the abyss within him. And as he looked at Lyra, her blood staining his gauntlets, he knew that the true battle had only begun.