Zytherion had reclaimed much of his lost power. His army, reforged by dark sorcery, marched like a black tide spilling from the mist. In his heart burned a single obsession: "If I defeat her, her heart will return to me." With that thought, he launched his assault on Aoleria's radiant ice palace.
In the frozen courtyard, the White Dwarves raised their shields, axes gleaming under the pale moon. Above them, the Wild Butterflies spread out in swarms, wings sharp as glass, scattering frost with every beat. Behind the palace's flowered ice walls, Aoleria rose from her throne, wings unfolding, her people's last beacon of hope.
The clash erupted like a storm.
The dwarves collided with the Undying Warriors, shields shattering, bones cracking. The butterflies struck the Shade Beasts from above, slicing through them with dazzling ferocity. But the tide of darkness pressed on, wave after relentless wave.
Amidst the chaos, Aoleria and Zytherion came face to face. And in that moment, the frozen flowers around them burst into color once more. The palace itself seemed to breathe again.
Aoleria faltered. For the first time since sealing her heart, she felt it stir. A whisper echoed inside her: "I still have a weakness for him…"
But with that realization came dread. This weakness endangered not only her heart, but her people, her very existence. Her wings trembled, then steadied with cold resolve.
She lifted her hands to the sky, summoning every fragment of ice within her soul. A white storm descended, the frozen blossoms gleaming with radiant light. With one final cry, Aoleria unleashed her full power and drove Zytherion back.
The dark lord staggered under the onslaught, hurled away by the storm's fury. His roar echoed with rage—but in his crimson eyes burned not defeat, but the undying spark of obsession.
Aoleria collapsed to her knees, drained. She had won the battle, yet the hollow ache within her chest made the victory bitter. For she knew: with every triumph, another piece of her heart turned to ice.