"Was your victory..."
"Truly worth it... at the end..?"
A collection of voices escaped the lips of a single vessel. His skin was an abyssal black that seemed to drink the light of the world around him, and yet, radiant silver cracks had slowly begun to spread across his body from his chest.
Because his life was swiftly approaching its end.
He had been stabbed through the heart by a knight who looked like they too would soon be walking into death's cold embrace.
Zenith Hazendragon.
The knight stood trembling, his sword plunged to the hilt, his blond hair covered in sweat and blood, his armor battered, and his own heart, while not stabbed, he could have been said to be going through the same pain.
Zenith inhaled once, steady despite the tremor in his limbs.
"Worth it…?"
His voice was hoarse, but he didn't waver.
"You speak like a child of shadows… as though victory were a thing bought with joy."
He pushed the blade deeper, not out of cruelty, but out of resolve.
"Know this," he murmured, meeting the dying god's dimming eyes. "No triumph worth having has ever come without a grave to go home to."
Blood dripped from his chin. His knees threatened to buckle. Still, he stood.
"Victory dares not speak of the price it would take to obtain her, for if she did, even sages would be called fools."
The Forgotten God spoke.
"But the price... was never yours alone to pay."
His fading gaze drifted past Zenith toward the dozens of lifeless bodies strewn across the broken ruins.
"Do you feel nothing over the death of your comrades? The ones who trusted you, the ones who looked up to you, the ones you mentored? All lay lifeless, yet you dare not shed a tear for them?"
Zenith did not avert his eyes from the god,
but neither did he flinch from the bodies around them.
"I dare not make light of their sacrifices with grief or anguish."
He finally turned his head, just enough to acknowledge the fallen,
not with sorrow, but with respect.
"They knew the fate awaiting them when they took up their blades... They chose to stand at my side, not as pawns, not as lambs to the slaughter… but as knights."
His voice deepened, steady as steel.
"And I, as their king, must honor that choice.
Not with tears.
Not with regret.
But with pride. This is the duty of a king.
to bear the weight of those who followed him…
and to walk forward anyway."
A low, fractured sound escaped the god's lips, a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.
"Extraordinary…"
The word drifted out of his failing vessel like a final breath.
He looked at Zenith not as an enemy, but as something... rare... something the ages had not allowed him to witness often.
"Even faced with despair…
even surrounded by the lifeless bodies of the ones you led…"
A faint smile curved across the god's crumbling face.
"…you never allowed hatred or regret to stain your heart."
His voice grew thinner, scattered like wind through broken glass.
"Warriors of your kind… are born once in an age.
But kings like you…?"
The cracks across his obsidian body flared with brilliant silver,
spreading like constellations across a dying sky.
"…They are born once in a world."
His limbs began to dissolve into shimmering dust, drifting upward.
First his arms, then his shoulders, then the hollowed chest that Zenith's blade had pierced.
"You have impressed even me, Zenith Hazendragon."
His eyes softened with a gentle, ancient sadness.
"Guard your heart well…
for it is the brightest light this realm has ever birthed... a light even the sun would hesitate to rival, and perhaps in the future... it too shall demand your aid to illuminate the shadowed corners of this world."
"Farewell... King of Knights."
And with that, the Forgotten God exhaled.
His entire form fractured into glittering dust-particles,
rising into the night like a fading constellation being pulled home.
Zenith slowly sheathed his blade, the metal sliding into its scabbard with a faint, hollow sound.
He sank to his knees, coughing blood, the taste bitter against his tongue. Near a set of cracked stone stairs, he lowered himself fully, the weight of victory pressing down on him.
His eyes roamed over the lifeless bodies of his comrades, the knights who had bled and died by his side. One by one, he whispered their names, his voice hoarse.
"Sir Eryndor Thalric… Sir Kaelen Drovane… Lady Maris Velthane… Sir Lorian Karesh… Lady Selene Aurith… Sir Darion Veyndral…"
A faint smile curved his lips as memories surged forward. He saw them again, not on the battlefield, but at a simple bar table, lanterns glowing warmly, war lamps flickering in the distance.
Ale mugs clinked, laughter echoing. Joy and camaraderie brightened their faces, a fleeting moment untouched by death or despair.
Zenith raised a wooden jug of ale in that memory, as if toasting them once more.
"The King of Knights has made true his word to you. I have vanquished the Forgotten God."
In the vision, they turned toward him and smiled. He returned their gaze, voice trembling:
"You all can rest now. This… war…" His throat tightened. "…is over."
The images faded, leaving behind the stillness of the battlefield. Zenith extended his right hand upward toward the night sky, fingers stretching as if he could grasp the moon itself.
"It has been a long journey…" he murmured softly. "…but now… we may finally see the end of it. A world without war."
The words tasted strange on his tongue. For a moment, the concept itself scarred him, as if peace were a stranger in a lifetime of conflict.
Would there even be a need for a Knight-King?
He wondered.
He chuckled softly. "Perish such pointless notions. I will always be the king... But... I can finally retire from the battlefield."
His eyes fluttered slowly as exhaustion claimed him, the battles of nearly two centuries finally pressing their weight into his bones. A soft, tired laugh escaped him.
"As expected… I am tired as well. Perhaps… I too should rest."
And with that, the Knight-King allowed himself to sink fully into the stillness, the echo of his comrades' laughter and loyalty lingering like a faint, eternal fire within his heart.
....
....
The chamber was dimly lit, arcs of magical energy flickering along the walls. The air smelled faintly of incense. Dozens of mages in dark red robes shuffled about, arranging reagents, inscribing runes, and checking instruments that gave off arcane energy.
At the center of the chamber lay an open white coffin; its surface was glowing faintly with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Inside, partially obscured by a bed of roses, lay a man, blond hair spilling across the bed of roses, wings folded gracefully, only glimpses of his feathers visible through the flowers.
At the head of the circle stood a woman with deep purple hair and red eyes; her gaze silenced the murmurs of the mages.
"Are all materials prepared?" she asked.
Several mages responded, "Yes."
One mage stepped forward, holding something wrapped in crimson cloth. He paused briefly, then unwrapped it just enough to reveal the faint silhouette of a sword, its hilt glinting under the magical lights.
"I believe this is the blade," he said. "Should it be… cleaned before use?"
The purple-haired woman's eyes narrowed. "No. His blood is on the hilt, and some of his magic still lingers within it. If the ritual is to succeed, we cannot erase it."
The mage swallowed. "But… this sword was used to slay the Forgotten God. If the legends are true, the Father of Heroes plunged it through the god's heart. Are we certain we won't summon the Forgotten God instead?"
A faint smile appeared on the woman's face, though her eyes remained focused on the coffin.
"I may not be certain," she admitted, "but this is a divine relic. The Father of Heroes once held a contract with it. Its bond to him… is closer than any god could be. I am confident it will work. There is no time to hesitate now."
Reluctantly, the mage nodded, bowing slightly before placing the sword reverently on the floor beside the coffin. The crimson cloth fell away, revealing the blade in full, still sheathed, its edge faintly glowing with lingering power.
The woman raised her hands, energy gathering around her. She then spoke:
"Begin the ritual."