The battlefield was a meat grinder. The sheer sensory overload was enough to drive a lesser man mad—the iron stench of fresh blood pooling in the mud, the terrifying, rhythmic thud of Tharzakir war drums, and the blinding flashes of dark sorcery clashing against Solthera's defensive barriers.
Prince Azeal parried a heavy axe from a Tharzakir brute, spun on his heel, and unleashed a wave of blue starlight from his blade, incinerating the front rank of attackers. But as he wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes, the opposing army suddenly parted.
The heavy, metallic footsteps of a single warrior echoed through the sudden silence of the breach.
It was Malakor.
Clad in jagged, soul-forged black armor, Draeven's son walked forward with terrifying confidence. His greatsword dragged across the bloody stones, sparking against the rocks. A cruel, sadistic grin stretched across his scarred face as his dark eyes locked onto Azeal.
"So, the little prince survived the Shadow Abyss," Malakor mocked, his voice dripping with malice. "My father told me you were a cockroach, Azeal. Hard to kill. But tonight, I will tear that pretty sword from your dead hands and lay your head at my father's feet."
Azeal didn't waste his breath on words. He lowered his stance, the blue flames of the Star Fire Sword erupting into a roaring, blinding blaze. "You talk too much, Malakor," Azeal whispered.
With an explosive burst of speed, Azeal lunged forward.
CLANG!
The collision of their swords created a shockwave that blew back the surrounding soldiers. Malakor was incredibly strong, his strikes heavy and infused with the dark, oppressive magic of Zhalver. Every time their blades met, sparks of blue light and black shadows violently erupted into the night air.
Malakor swung his greatsword in a vicious horizontal arc, aiming to take Azeal's head off. Azeal ducked under the blade, the wind of the swing whistling over his hair, and thrust his sword upward. Malakor twisted his body just in time, the blue fire grazing his obsidian chest plate, melting the metal instantly.
Roaring in frustration, Malakor slammed his armored shield into Azeal's chest, sending the prince skidding backward across the muddy, blood-slicked ground. Azeal coughed, tasting iron, but he recovered his footing instantly.
"Is that all the power the rightful King of Solthera possesses?" Malakor laughed, raising his sword for a final, crushing blow. "You are weak, Azeal! Your kingdom is ours!"
Azeal looked at Malakor, a cold, unyielding calm settling over him. He remembered the horrors of the Shadow Abyss, the trials they had faced, and the absolute arrogance of the Zarethian bloodline.
"I should have killed you in the Shadow Abyss," Azeal said, his voice dropping to a deadly, resonant whisper. "I won't make the same mistake twice."
Before Malakor could react, Azeal channeled every ounce of his royal energy into his weapon. The Star Fire Sword didn't just burn; it blindingly illuminated the entire battlefield. Azeal moved like a flash of lightning. He sidestepped Malakor's heavy downward strike, shattered Malakor's dark shield with a brutal kick, and in one fluid, blinding motion, drove the Star Fire Sword straight through the center of Malakor's chest.
Malakor gasped, his eyes widening in absolute shock as the holy blue flames began to consume him from the inside out. The dark magic within his veins fought back, but it was useless against the pure starlight of the blade.
Azeal leaned in close, looking straight into the dying eyes of the usurper's son. "Tell your father the true King of Solthera sent you."
With a powerful wrench, Azeal pulled his sword free. Malakor collapsed into the mud, his breathing rattling to a permanent stop as his dark soul dissolved into ash.
A sudden, breathless hush fell over the immediate battlefield. The soldiers of Zhalver and Xeraphyn watched in horror as their commander fell. But before Azeal could even catch his breath, the thunderous sound of thousands of hooves and marching boots echoed from the valleys.
On the horizon, riding with impossible speed, came the combined reinforcement armies of Valestryx and Lysvaen. Lord Kaelor and Lady Seraphine had returned just in time, leading their grand legions to clash directly into the enemy's flanks. They turned the tide of the battle in a heartbeat, pushing the invaders back.
The miracle had arrived. But deep within the dark command tent across the valley, Draeven Zareth received the news of his son's death—and his eyes burned with a madness that would doom the world.