The sky split open in a crimson roar. Wrath descended not as one foe, but as a tide of fury given form. His presence ignited every heart within reach — soldiers, beasts, even the hesitant villagers who had gathered to watch — all drowned in madness. They turned on one another with savage cries, their eyes burning red.
Cyrus staggered to his feet, body still raw from his vow's scars. Beside him, Hope raised her banner of light, trying to steady the chaos. Love stretched her arms wide, weaving bonds to shield those who faltered. But Wrath's laughter cracked the ground, and the horde surged.
Steel rang, fire hissed, and the battlefield became a storm. Cyrus cut through the rabid swarm, every swing of his blade more desperate than the last. Hope fought at his side, each word of encouragement sparking a faint clarity in those around them. For a fleeting moment, unity seemed possible.
Then it broke.
Love faltered. Where Wrath's fury struck deepest, she bent, drawn to the passion in his violence. "Is this not proof?" she cried over the clash, her voice trembling. "Even rage is love unchained!" With a single motion, she turned her shield from Cyrus, leaving his flank bare.
Pain tore through him as a berserker's axe glanced his side. Blood sprayed, warm and sharp, yet he did not fall. He met Wrath's burning eyes and spat crimson. "If fury is all you are," he roared, "then fury will not be your crown!"
The battle surged again, Cyrus dragging himself forward, rallying the scattered and betrayed. Hope's light dimmed but did not vanish. Together, they forced Wrath back step by brutal step, until the giant dissolved into smoke — not slain, but retreating, a promise of return lingering in the air.
Silence followed, broken only by the sobs of the wounded and the crackle of fire. Love knelt in shame, Hope slumped in exhaustion, and Cyrus stood bleeding, blade trembling in his grip. He had survived — but unity had not.