Lorian stood in the silence long after Cerys disappeared into the smoke.

  His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  The remnants of Abyssal magic still curled along his fingers—dim now, but clinging like soot beneath the skin. The earth was cracked beneath his boots, scorched where his anger had bled into it. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths.

  He hadn’t said a word. Not to Aric. Not to Cerys.

  And maybe that was its own kind of confession.

  He looked down at his hands—blood, sweat, blackened magic.

  Aric had looked at those hands like they were foreign. Like they didn’t belong to the boy he once helped raise.

  Was it worth it?

  Lorian didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure there was one.

  He had fought for this kingdom. Nearly died for it.

  And now?

  Now he was something to be watched. Feared. Forgotten.

  Abyssal magic was a death sentence. No one would care why it was used—only that it was.

  Cerys’s words rang louder in his mind than the screams on the battlefield. You’re with her. And you’re using that magic.

  He didn’t regret saving Elara. Not that. Not ever.

  But everything else…

  He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to still the tremor there. It didn’t help.

  Behind him, Lysara stood quietly. She hadn’t spoken. She didn’t need to.

  She was a demon. Bound or not, her presence beside him would only damn him further.

  He should run. He knew that.

  He should disappear before the any of the King’s forces arrived—before they saw what Aric and Cerys already had.

  But something in him hesitated.

  If he ran, he confirmed their fears.

  If he stayed…

  Would it matter?

  Would they listen? Or would a blade find his throat before a word left his mouth?

  Lorian closed his eyes.

  The battlefield had gone quiet.

  But inside, the storm hadn’t ended.

  Lorian dropped to his knees.

  The weight finally pulled him down, shoulders caving, elbows hitting the scorched earth beneath him. His fingers clawed through broken dirt and ash, digging in like he could anchor himself there—like he could stop himself from falling any further.

  But he already had.

  “Lorian.”

  Lysara’s voice was quiet behind him. Not sharp. Not cold.

  Just his name.

  He stayed there for a moment, breathing in silence.

  Alone.

  They never wanted me.

  Not when he was the quiet son. The lesser heir. The one who couldn’t summon light or brilliance or destiny.

  Not when he clawed his way into strength.

  And certainly not now—drenched in Abyssal magic, with a demon at his side and blood on his hands.

  He had been rejected for his weakness.

  And now, rejected for his power.

  What was left?

  He wasn’t a proper Aeloria. Never had been. The name had never fit. It hung on his shoulders like a crown that choked instead of shone. He wasn’t the perfect son. Not the symbol. Not the heir.

  Maybe he wasn’t meant to be.

  Maybe the path they gave him had never been his to walk.

  He exhaled slowly, the breath trembling from somewhere deep inside.

  If the world wanted to loathe him—so be it.

  If every name he loved turned from him—so be it.

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  If the laws of the kingdom called him cursed—so be it.

  He would not let that decide who he was.

  He would do what was right.

  Even if the right thing left him alone in the dark.

  Lorian planted his hands to the ground and pushed himself up.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  The ache in his limbs screamed. His body trembled from exhaustion. But he stood.

  Tall.

  Steady.

  Unyielding.

  He turned toward the horizon—toward the smoldering ruins, the collapsed gates, and the shadow of war still raging around Malcom’s throne.

  “Lysara,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’re going.”

  Then he stepped forward.

  Ready to rejoin the fray.

  No title.

  No house.

  Just conviction.

  Even if the world didn’t want him, he’d carve his place into it anyway.

  Each swing of the King’s blade carved through the storm like a falling star—unstoppable, radiant, yet fleeting.

  Malcom staggered beneath the force of it, shards of corrupted magic crackling around him like a failing shield. His breaths came fast, eyes wild with disbelief. His father fought like a judgment wrapped in armor. A force not born of anger, but of sheer inevitability.

  Still, Malcom sneered through bloodied teeth. “You’re slowing down, Father.”

  The King didn’t answer.

  But it was true.

  His movements, while precise and devastating, had lost their edge of endurance. The artifact’s poison still lingered, dulling the strength that had once silenced entire wars. He fought now on will alone, his body a burning star collapsing inward—fierce, but fading.

  And behind them, the rift pulsed louder. Wider.

  Hungrier.

  Below the royal dais, Thaddeus stood like a fortress carved into the battlefield. Blood streaked his armor. Smoke curled from his pauldrons. Yet his grip on his sword never wavered. He turned toward the chaos with a soldier’s stillness—measuring the threat, already preparing to meet it.

  Beside him, Lady Sera’s form dissolved briefly into shadow—darkness rippling from her limbs like smoke bleeding into air. Her eyes flicked to the rift, then to the professor’s box still sealed in the corruptive shimmer of Aldric’s barrier.

  “The King won’t last much longer,” she said, her voice low, quiet as dusk.

  Thaddeus’s golden eyes scanned the field. “And if that rift isn’t closed, this entire city falls.”

  Sera’s gaze narrowed. “We need the Magister.”

  Thaddeus gave a sharp nod. “He’s the only one who can seal it.”

  They turned to the dais—just in time to see Aldric arrive.

  Flanking him were Cyrthal and Izhaldrath.

  Sera’s voice dropped. “What in the stars are those?”

  Thaddeus’s jaw locked. “Doesn’t matter. They’re with him.”

  The group approached Malcom’s side like soldiers returning to their commander. The prince raised a hand without ceremony.

  “Hold the line,” he ordered. “Keep them from the Magister. No matter what.”

  Cyrthal’s grin stretched wide. “With pleasure.”

  Sera didn’t hesitate. She moved like a wraith, her form bleeding into shadow.

  “I’ll free Orion,” she said, already gone.

  Thaddeus stepped forward.

  Above them, Malcom hurled another barrage of corrupted shards—intercepted by the King’s celestial blade, though this time the deflection left him reeling.

  They both saw it.

  The King faltering.

  Time running thin.

  Sera’s voice was the last echo in the space between them.

  “We’ll free the Magister.”

  She vanished into the smoke—slipping toward the sealed professor’s box with deliberate precision.

  Thaddeus raised his sword.

  Light poured from him like a flood, radiant and punishing, forcing back the creeping shadow around the field as Aldric, Cyrthal, and Izhaldrath advanced.

  His aura dropped like a hammer.

  The ground beneath his boots cracked with pressure. Light seared upward from the fissures, the sheer weight of his presence pressing into the battlefield like gravity. The air buzzed with magic on the verge of eruption.

  Cyrthal let out a low laugh, eyes gleaming.

  “Ah… the great Aeloria standing so tall, even now. Just wait till he hears what’s become of his children.”

  Thaddeus’s face didn’t twist in rage—but something colder settled into his expression. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened beneath the glow. A sharp breath left his chest.

  “For your sake, demon,” he said, voice low and cutting, “your words had better hold no truth.”

  And the light flared brighter.

  Silent.

  Relentless.

  Cracking the earth beneath his feet.

  He said nothing more.

  But the battlefield lit with his fury.

  The King’s celestial blade dimmed for the briefest second as he deflected the latest barrage, the recoil sending a tremor through his arm. His foot slid half a step back across the fractured stone. He stilled it before it became a stumble—but Malcom saw it.

  The prince’s grin returned.

  “You’re burning out,” Malcom said, pacing sideways like a wolf in reach of blood. “All that fury. All that grief. And you still can’t kill me.”

  The King said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the star-forged blade. His breaths were steady, but no longer effortless.

  Malcom raised his arms, and a surge of abyssal-celestial energy spiraled into the air. Corrupted constellations flared to life around him, their lines jagged and malformed—a mockery of the legacy he’d abandoned.

  “You can’t beat me, Father,” he said, voice rising. “Not anymore. You’re clinging to a kingdom that’s already ash.”

  The King’s eyes stayed locked on him. His voice came low—rough from exhaustion, but cold and final.

  “I may die here today.”

  Malcom blinked.

  “But not before I correct my greatest mistake… and close that damn portal.”

  He raised his sword—not in flourish, but in judgment.

  “You were my son. My heir. And I failed you. I see that now.”

  Malcom’s expression faltered—just for a heartbeat.

  “But I won’t let that failure destroy everything we built.”

  The prince’s smile returned, brittle and sharp. “You’re too late, Father.”

  Malcom roared and charged.

  Their clash shattered the silence like glass.

  Malcom’s blades struck in a storm—twin daggers wreathed in black flame, dancing with speed. He moved like a shadow on fire, each step faster, each strike crueler. The King met him blow for blow, his sword a meteor in motion, carving arcs of starlight that lit the battlefield with each swing.

  The ground shook with every collision.

  Sparks of corrupted and pure celestial magic scattered like falling stars. The sky above them crackled with torn energy as their powers clashed—order and chaos twisting into a storm that sent shockwaves through the air.

  Malcom snarled as his daggers scraped along the King’s shoulder plate, denting the metal but failing to pierce.

  “You’re old. You’re dying,” he spat. “Just lie down and rot you half-dead bastard.”

  The King pivoted and slammed the flat of his blade into Malcom’s chest. The blow sent the prince skidding backward across the stone, feet gouging lines into the ground.

  “I am dying,” the King said. “But not before I make this right.”

  Malcom hissed, the blood on his lips burning black.

  “You don’t get it!” he screamed. “I didn’t betray you—I became what you never had the courage to be!”

  He raised both hands, summoning a spiraling column of celestial fire tainted with Abyssal hunger. It crashed toward the King like a divine spear turned wicked.

  The King raised his hand, not his sword.

  His aura swelled, and for a moment—it eclipsed everything.

  Stars realigned within the swirl of his magic. The heavens blinked. The spear met his palm—

  —and shattered into dust.

  The recoil buckled his knees. He caught himself, sweat glistening down his brow beneath the crown-shaped circlet still resting on his head.

  He straightened.

  “You think corruption is strength,” he said. “But it’s just cowardice in finer robes.”

  Malcom’s reply was a wordless snarl. He charged again, faster than before, burning through what remained of his strength in a final push.

  This time, the King didn’t wait.

  He stepped forward to meet him.