Flashback: Blackblood Fields, Eldros
The last demon shuddered, finally still, its body a wet ruin in the mud. Corpses, men and monsters, lay in silence. The wind tasted of fire and iron. Kael Draven pulled his sword free, arms aching, lungs burning. He breathed in the scent of war and wondered, as he always did when the battle ended, whether he belonged here at all.
Liora Swiftfoot wiped blood from her face, eyes dark. Garret Duskthorn passed a shaking hand through his hair, his spells flickering out one by one. Torren Voss leaned on his broken shield, armor dented, shoulders rising with slow breaths. Asla Nightshade chewed her lip, her gaze fixed on the sea, never one for words.
Garret pointed west, toward the Stormfang Sea, where a smudge broke the line of the horizon.
"They have run. To the Darkhold."
Torren grunted.
"Crawled home."
Asla tossed a broken blade into the mire.
"Now what?"
Kael looked north, toward the mountains, toward the city hidden in the haze, its broken towers barely visible.
"We rebuild."
They walked, leaving the Blackblood Fields behind. No victory yet, just a moment's rest.
Present Day: Draven's Reach, Twelve Years Later
A city of brass and steam soared above the trees, chimneys spouting white into the sky. Draven's Reach shimmered in the evening, domes catching the last light, streets humming with automatons and children. The Foundry Quarter roared with industry. The Brass Promenade teemed with merchants and messengers. The air was thick with coal smoke, sea salt, and something Kael recognized, progress.
Kael Draven, silver in his hair now, walked the city as both king and stranger. People called out to him, offered bread, fruit, blessings. He accepted in silence, remembering another city, another life. Was this truly his now? Or was he always an outsider, grafting home onto something not his own?
Liora found him at the Clockwork Gardens, where bronze birds took flight each hour and fountains pulsed in mechanical time.
"Hiding from your own party?" she teased.
Garret approached, charts in hand.
"By your old calendar, tomorrow is the twenty eighth. Your birthday."
Asla twirled a blade, sharp as ever.
"Twelve years, and you forget what cake tastes like."
Torren, mute as ever, joined them, armor shining faintly in the afternoon.
Kael nearly laughed, the warmth in his chest unexpected.
"Might as well enjoy the night," he said.
The Celebration: Hall of Gears
The Hall of Gears blazed with light, lamps hissing, firelight dancing. Tables stretched the length of the hall, stacked with roasted meats, fresh loaves, bowls of fruit. Musicians played, lutes and harmonicas singing together, drums pulsing below. Guilds paraded, children weaving beneath feet, automatons clattering on silver wheels.
Kael sat at the center, surrounded by friends, old soldiers, children, scholars. The laughter was real, the relief unforced. Toasts rose through the noise:
"To twelve years!"
"To Draven's Reach!"
"To tomorrow!"
Liora lifted her glass, eyes soft.
"For the man who saw a future when we could not."
Garret, ever the scholar, raised his cup.
"To trust, repaid."
Asla grinned, her blade catching the light.
"To change," she said, still smiling.
Torren, never one for words, brought his hands together in thunderous applause.
Kael let himself forget the war, the Darkhold's shadow, the doubt that crept in.
He belonged here, didn't he?
The Betrayal
Late, the candles burning low, voices fading, Liora leaned close.
"One last gift," she said, her voice nearly a whisper, intimate, almost gentle. "But you will have to turn off your detection spells. No spoilers."
Kael hesitated. He searched her face, saw her eyes dart away for a moment, then back. He silenced his magics, quieted the hum in his bones, turned off the sense that had kept him alive through a dozen battles. For the first time in twelve years, he was bare and vulnerable.
"Close your eyes," she said.
He obeyed. For a heartbeat, there was only warmth, the echo of music, the scent of wine and friends.
From the window, Asla's hand flicked, a signal to the tower, where someone waited, breathed out, fired.
Glass shattered. Fire bloomed in his chest, agony, his breath snatched away. Blood pooled. His vision swam. Faces of those he had called brother and sister closed in.
Liora's voice was soft, regretful, almost pleading.
"Kael, please. Stop fighting."
Garret, calm, detached:
"Twelve years is long enough for any ruler. Even you."
Torren, saying nothing, only stepped forward, hand raised, a wall between Kael and escape.
Asla's knife glittered, her grin sharp.
"We are giving you your exit, hero. Don't be stubborn."
Kael's mind reeled. He reached for his magic, for anything left, the disbelief crushed under an awful truth. They had planned this. All of them. He had told himself it was paranoia, but he had known, hadn't he?
Liora, Garret, Torren, Asla, all in on it.
Not Liora. Not her.
He laughed, blood in his teeth, and with a last shout of will, tore the air open. Before him, a portal yawned, shadows, rain, old streets beyond.
The hall filled with fire, steel, the stink of magic burning raw.
Every strike was slower than the last. Every dodge cost more than he had left to give.
They lunged as one.
Torren came first, silent, unstoppable, but Kael twisted as he had taught him years ago, spun him into Garret's spell. The mage snarled as his fingers tangled, power fizzling.
Asla flashed in, blade darting for his throat. He caught her wrist, wrenched her aside, felt the edge graze his collarbone.
Liora's hands closed around his arm, strong, trembling, her cheek almost pressed to his.
"Please," she whispered, "don't make this harder."
For a moment, pleading, sorrow, resolve tangled in her eyes.
He met her gaze, whispered, "Let me go."
Her fingers slipped.
Kael threw himself into the portal.
Behind him, a last glimpse of friends, of blades, spells, of the city he had built, gone.
Earth, Present Day
He crashed onto the floor, blood soaking his shirt. The walls covered in posters, the scuffed desk, the old bed, all blurred in his vision. He pressed his hand, shaking and slick, to the ruin in his chest, whispered a final spell, felt the last dregs of magic drain from his veins.
He lay still, listening to the city outside, unchanged, indifferent.
Kael Draven, once hero, now a man in a forgotten room.
And far away, in a city of light, four figures stood on a bloodstained balcony. The cost still unknown, but freedom, finally, theirs.