The black smoke pouring from Draeven's obsidian altar did not rise into the sky like the sacred silver embers of the fallen Drazhin. Instead, it crawled across the stone floor like a nest of starving vipers, leaving a trail of black frost in its wake. It was a parasitic, unnatural magic—the Zhalver death-hex that drained the very life force from the living.
Prince Azeal felt the sudden, sickening drop in temperature before the smoke even touched him. The wound along his ribs throbbed with a cold, burning agony, and his breath turned to white mist in the freezing air.
"Die like your king, boy!" Draeven roared, swinging his jagged staff forward.
The black smoke coalesced into a massive, shadowy projectile shaped like a roaring wolf, leaping directly at Azeal's chest. Azeal braced his feet against the icy stone, raising the Star Fire Sword defensively. He channeled the absolute limit of his remaining celestial energy into the blade. The blue fire flared violently, creating a circular shield of starlight just as the shadow-wolf slammed into him.
BOOM!
The impact was deafening. The sheer force of the collision pushed Azeal backward, his boots carving deep grooves into the solid rock of the summit. The protective blue fire hissed and sputtered as the toxic black smoke wrapped around his blade, trying to suffocate the celestial flame.
Azeal's arms trembled under the immense pressure. He could feel the necrotic magic seeping through his hilt, numbing his fingers and spreading a paralyzing chill up his forearms. His vision wavered, the edges turning dark as the smoke tried to leach his life force.
I can't fall here, Azeal told himself, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to shatter. Not until he is dead. Not while Vaelora is still out there.
With a fierce, guttural scream, Azeal forced his numbed muscles to move. He twisted his torso, breaking the deadlock, and deflected the shadow-projectile into the cliffside. The explosion tore a massive chunk of rock away, sending stone debris raining down into the abyss below.
Before Azeal could reset his stance, Draeven was already upon him. For an old sorcerer, the tyrant moved with a terrifying, unnatural speed fueled by the dark spirits he commanded. He closed the distance instantly, his jagged staff striking downward like a hammer.
CLANG!
Azeal caught the strike with the crossguard of his sword, but the raw physical force behind the blow sent him crashing down onto one knee. The stone beneath his knee shattered. Draeven leaned into the clash, his scarred face inches from Azeal's, his breath smelling of decay and old copper.
"Your father was stronger than you, and I broke him," Draeven whispered, his dark eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. "Your mentor was wiser than you, and I tore his soul apart. What makes you think your little blue spark can change the prophecy?"
Azeal looked straight into the dark lord's eyes, a bloody grin stretching across his lips. "Because they fought to protect a kingdom..." Azeal rasped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low growl. "...but I am fighting to protect her."
Using Draeven's own weight against him, Azeal suddenly loosened his grip on the hilt, letting his sword drop slightly. Taken by surprise, Draeven stumbled forward. In that split second, Azeal drove his armored head straight into Draeven's face.
CRACK!
The brutal headbutt broke Draeven's nose, sending the dark lord stumbling backward, clutching his bloodied face in shock. Azeal didn't waste a heartbeat. He snatched his sword from the air, spun on his good leg, and delivered a powerful horizontal slash across Draeven's chest.
The Star Fire Sword cut through Draeven's dark robes and bit deep into the obsidian armor beneath, leaving a glowing, melted scar across the dark lord's torso. Draeven screamed in rage as the celestial blue fire singed his flesh, his dark magic flaring wildly to extinguish the burning starlight.
Azeal fell back, coughing up a thick stream of dark blood, gasping for air. His body was completely broken, his vision blurring out completely for seconds at a time. He was running on nothing but pure, unadulterated willpower. He could hear the faint, distant sound of a horse's hooves echoing from the lower trails—a sound that gave him a desperate ray of hope. He just needed to hold the line a little longer.