The wasteland trembled beneath the clash of two truths.
Cyrus's blade of sorrow, jagged and translucent, met the flaming weapon of Wrath. Sparks flew, but they were not sparks of steel — they were echoes of memory and rage, colliding in a storm of meaning.
The bearer of Wrath pressed forward with fury in every strike. His voice roared with each swing: "Why mourn the dead when vengeance waits? Why carry their chains when you can break them all with fire?"
Cyrus stumbled, his sorrow heavy, slowing him. Each blow of Wrath's blade carried not just strength but conviction. Cyrus felt the temptation gnawing at him: anger was simpler than grief. Wrath was clean, sharp, unyielding — while sorrow bled and faltered.
But even as his body buckled, the voices of the fallen whispered through him. Not cries for vengeance, but laments, promises, confessions left unfinished. They did not need fire. They needed remembrance.
He steadied himself, parrying a strike that nearly split him in two. His voice, raw and quiet, carried across the battlefield. "You burn, but fire fades. Sorrow endures. Wrath consumes — but memory carries."
Wrath snarled, his flames flaring brighter. "Endures? Endures for what? The dead are dust! Only fire shapes the living!"
Their blades clashed one final time. The ground cracked, the air split, and both men staggered back. Neither had won. Both had scarred the other.
The battlefield fell silent, save for Cyrus's ragged breath. Wrath turned, eyes burning, his voice low. "You will see the truth, wanderer. When sorrow breaks you, only wrath will remain."
And with that, he vanished into the firestorm, leaving Cyrus standing alone — wounded, trembling, yet unbroken.
For the first time, he realized: sorrow was not a shield. It was a burden. But it was also a defiance.