Chapter 10: The Death of a King

  "Valhalla, I am coming!"

  Scene 1: The Last Battle Begins

  The sky was an inferno of burning stars, a maelstrom of fire and ruin that stretched across the heavens. The fortress of Aetheris, once a bastion of kings, now lay in shattered remnants—stone walls crumbling, ancient banners torn to ribbons by the ceaseless wind. The battlefield groaned beneath the weight of the dead, a graveyard of broken swords and hollowed shields, where the last embers of war still smoldered in the darkness.

  And at the heart of it, two figures stood amidst the ruin.

  Ragnor tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, his breath rising in short bursts as sweat and blood matted his dark hair to his forehead. His armor, once polished and gleaming, was now scarred by battle, the wolf sigil of Albion nearly unrecognizable beneath the grime. His boots sank into the wet earth, a graveyard of fallen warriors beneath his feet. He no longer stood as a warlord, nor as a conqueror—no crown waited for him at the end of this battle. Only the weight of history, heavy as the sword in his hand.

  Opposite him, Sigurd stood in eerie stillness, a figure no longer entirely mortal. His flesh pulsed with an unnatural glow, veins coursing with fire, his irises golden slits as if carved by the hand of the gods themselves. The monstrous greatsword in his grip burned with an unholy radiance, flickering like the heart of a dying star.

  "Do you feel it?" Sigurd’s voice was a hymn of madness, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “The weight of eternity pressing down on you?”

  Ragnor exhaled through his nose, lowering his stance. His fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword, the steel vibrating as if whispering a final prayer. "The only weight I feel is the chains of a fate I will not bear."

  Sigurd laughed, the sound jagged, unnatural. "Ah, but you always fight it, don’t you? The cycle turns, and you refuse to kneel. You always defy, always bleed, always fail.” His grip tightened around his sword, embers trailing from its tip like fireflies in the night. "This is how it ends, Stormborn. This is how it has always ended."

  Ragnor’s lips barely moved. "Not this time."

  And then they charged.

  Their blades met in an explosion of force, the sheer impact sending a shockwave through the ruined battlefield. The stone beneath them cracked, the very air shuddering with the weight of their clash. Sparks erupted as steel scraped against steel, the battlefield momentarily illuminated by the ferocity of their battle.

  Sigurd pressed forward, his strikes relentless, his form a blur of burning energy. Each blow carried the weight of divinity, an echo of battles long past, wars fought beyond mortal reckoning. His sword howled as it cut through the air, slicing through the embers of fallen warriors.

  Ragnor dodged, his instincts honed by a thousand battles, his movements precise, calculated. He was not stronger. He was not faster. But he was alive—his heart still beat with the fury of a man who had seen too much, lost too much, learned too much.

  Their swords met again, the force of the impact sending both warriors skidding backward. Sigurd sneered, golden eyes flashing. "You hold no throne, Ragnor. No kingdom will sing your name."

  Ragnor steadied his breath. "Then let them sing of a man who broke the gods."

  With a roar, they clashed again.

  The battle raged across the ruins of Aetheris, past the broken pillars of once-great halls, through the scattered remnants of the fallen. Warriors from both armies had ceased their fighting, standing in stunned silence as they bore witness to the clash of titans. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting, watching.

  Ragnor ducked beneath a burning arc of Sigurd’s blade, rolling through the debris before launching himself forward. His sword struck true, slicing against Sigurd’s arm, drawing a streak of crimson that hissed against his unnaturally heated skin.

  Sigurd barely flinched. He grinned, eyes wild. "Do you think this body is mine alone? You cut me, and still, I rise."

  He lunged, his blade carving through the air. Ragnor barely brought his own sword up in time, the impact forcing him to one knee.

  Sigurd loomed over him, his voice thick with triumph. "You cannot stop what was always meant to be."

  Ragnor spat blood into the dirt. "Then I will make something new."

  With a defiant roar, he surged upward, his blade catching the firelight as he drove forward. Steel met flesh, and for the first time, Sigurd staggered.

  A collective breath held by the battlefield.

  Sigurd’s golden eyes flickered, his smirk faltering. His hand trembled around the hilt of his sword. His lips parted, as if realizing—too late—that the tide had shifted.

  Ragnor stood tall, his own breath ragged but steady. He raised his sword once more, stepping into the light of the dying sun.

  The battle was not yet over. But the first crack in destiny had begun.

  Scene 2: Astrid’s Last Stand

  The battlefield stretched before them, a wasteland of ruin and death, where the fires of war still flickered in the hollowed-out remains of Albion’s mightiest stronghold. The cries of the dying had softened now, fading beneath the weight of the wind that carried the ash of the fallen. Yet for those who still stood, the battle was far from over.

  Astrid’s breath came in ragged bursts, her body aching beneath the weight of her battered armor. Blood streaked down the side of her face, mixing with the dirt and sweat that clung to her skin. Her sword felt heavier with each swing, yet she did not falter. Not now. Not while they still stood.

  Selene moved beside her, her dark robes whipping in the wind, the last vestiges of her magic crackling at her fingertips like dying embers. Her face was pale, her strength waning, but her eyes burned with quiet defiance.

  Ser Haldrik, the once-cynical warrior, now fought like a man possessed—his shield splintered, his sword dulled, but his resolve unbroken.

  The remnants of the dark army still clawed their way forward, shadows of their former selves, yet still deadly. The beasts of the Black Wolf cult, twisted and monstrous, lunged from the darkness, their eyes burning with unnatural hunger.

  Astrid raised her sword once more, steadying herself.

  “They’re falling back,” Selene said, her voice hoarse.

  Astrid swallowed, forcing herself to remain upright. She could feel the warmth of her own blood pooling beneath her breastplate, but she ignored it. “Not far enough,” she murmured.

  And then the beasts lunged again.

  Selene raised her hands, unleashing the last remnants of her magic. Bolts of searing white light carved through the dark creatures, sending them shrieking into the night. But even as they burned, more came, crawling over the bodies of the fallen.

  Astrid stepped forward, her sword cutting through flesh and bone. She fought without thought, without hesitation. Her body screamed for rest, but she refused to listen.

  A creature leapt at her from the side—she barely had time to turn.

  And then Haldrik was there, his blade carving through the beast with brutal efficiency. He spat on the ground, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Don’t you dare die on me, Astrid.”

  Astrid exhaled through her nose, forcing a smirk. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  But as she turned to strike down another foe, a blade found her side.

  A sharp, searing pain tore through her, stealing the breath from her lungs. She staggered, her vision blurring, but she did not fall.

  Selene was there in an instant, her hands on Astrid’s shoulders. “Astrid—”

  Astrid clenched her jaw, gripping her sword tighter. Blood dripped from her fingers, but she remained standing. “We are not done yet,” she rasped.

  Selene’s gaze darkened, her fingers tightening around Astrid’s arm. “You cannot keep fighting like this.”

  Astrid met her eyes, and for the briefest moment, a flicker of doubt passed between them. But then the ground trembled, and they turned toward the battlefield once more.

  In the distance, past the ruined fortress, past the bodies of the fallen, Ragnor and Sigurd’s battle raged.

  Astrid clenched her teeth, forcing herself to move. “Then we hold the line.”

  And so they fought on, even as the gods turned their gaze toward the battle’s true end.

  Scene 3: The Gods Reveal Themselves

  The air was thick with the scent of blood and ruin. The ground trembled beneath their feet as if the world itself recoiled from the chaos unleashed upon it. In the heart of the shattered fortress, two figures remained locked in a duel that had spanned lifetimes.

  Ragnor and Sigurd.

  Their blades met again, the force of their clash sending a shockwave through the battlefield. The impact cracked the stones beneath them, the sound echoing like thunder across the ruin-strewn plain. Sigurd’s monstrous sword burned with unnatural fire, his form shifting between man and something else—something greater, something terrible.

  “You cannot stop this,” Sigurd sneered, his golden eyes burning with mad certainty. “This is how it has always ended. This is how it must end.”

  Ragnor steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on his blade. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the echoes of every battle before this one clawing at the edges of his mind.

  “Not this time,” he said, and with a roar, he struck again.

  The world shuddered.

  And then the sky split open.

  A rift of light and shadow tore through the heavens, revealing figures beyond mortal comprehension. Towering and shifting, neither fully formed nor fully absent, the gods of Albion and Skjoldheim loomed over the battlefield. Their presence alone sent men and beasts alike to their knees, their voices layered with a thousand whispers of fate.

  "You were never meant to win."

  Ragnor felt the words hammer into his mind, a truth so deeply embedded in the world that it made the very air quiver.

  "You were never meant to lose."

  Sigurd faltered for the first time. He looked up at them, the golden fire in his eyes flickering. “You—” His voice cracked, uncertain, desperate. “You chose me.”

  The gods’ laughter rumbled across the sky, hollow and infinite.

  "We choose no one. We only watch. We only feast."

  Sigurd’s expression twisted, rage and horror warring for control. “No… NO! I am your champion! You made me king!”

  The gods did not answer.

  Ragnor took a slow step forward, his breath coming steady despite the divine weight pressing down on them. “You never ruled us,” he said, the truth unraveling in his mind like an untethered thread. “You only fed on our war.”

  The gods flickered, their forms pulsing with instability.

  For the first time, something close to fear whispered through the echoes of their voices.

  Sigurd turned on Ragnor with a snarl, his grip tightening on his blade. “You did this,” he seethed. “You broke the order. You ruined everything!”

  His power flared, a last, desperate attempt to hold onto what had always been.

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  The gods waited, silent and watching, as if they knew the end had already been written.

  But Ragnor—this time—would not follow the script.

  Scene 4: The Gods’ Judgment (Sigurd’s Desperation)

  The battlefield lay in ruin. Fire and blood painted the land in shades of death, yet the true war was no longer fought in the realm of men. The gods loomed above, neither flesh nor spirit, their towering forms flickering like shadow and fire woven into the sky itself.

  Sigurd knelt, trembling, his golden eyes wide with disbelief. The divine glow that had once surrounded him—once marked him as chosen—was gone.

  No.

  It had never been there at all.

  He had spent his life believing himself to be their instrument, their ordained ruler. And yet, the gods merely stood, watching, unmoving.

  “Why?” His voice was hoarse, his breath ragged. He lifted his arms to the sky, pleading. “WHY DO YOU NOT ANSWER?”

  The gods’ voices echoed through the ruin.

  "You were never our champion."

  The words struck like a death knell.

  "We do not fight. We do not rule. We only watch."

  Sigurd’s hands trembled as he clutched his sword, his grip unsteady for the first time in his life. “I killed for you,” he whispered. “I burned kingdoms for you! I bled for you!”

  "And we feasted upon it."

  Their laughter—cold, empty, endless—rippled across the heavens.

  Sigurd’s body tensed, his breath shuddering as he turned his gaze to Ragnor. His expression twisted into something beyond fury, beyond madness.

  “You,” he hissed, rising to his feet. His voice was no longer the voice of a king, but of a desperate man clinging to a world that had already collapsed around him. “You did this. You broke the order. You ruined everything.”

  Ragnor stood unmoving, watching the last remnants of Sigurd’s certainty crumble to dust. “No,” he said, his voice steady. “I simply saw the truth.”

  Sigurd roared, his power surging in one last, frantic burst of fury.

  He lunged, his monstrous blade swinging wildly, his strikes fueled not by strength, but by despair. His movements were erratic, reckless. A man fighting not to win—but to deny his own defeat.

  Ragnor parried every blow.

  Steel clashed against steel, but there was no true battle left to fight. Sigurd’s strikes held no precision, no purpose. The warlord who had once been unstoppable was now just another man, his fate crumbling with every failing swing of his blade.

  The gods watched, silent and unmoved.

  Sigurd faltered, his breath ragged, his strength failing. His grip slackened on his sword, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. He turned his gaze skyward one last time, searching—begging—for an answer.

  But there was nothing.

  No hand of fate to lift him.

  No divine voice to command him.

  Only silence.

  For the first time in his life, Sigurd was truly alone.

  Ragnor exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword. The moment had come.

  The gods loomed, waiting.

  Sigurd, shaking, his face pale with the weight of truth, turned his gaze to Ragnor. And in his golden eyes, for the first time, there was fear.

  Ragnor raised his sword.

  And then—

  He did something no warrior had ever done before.

  He turned his blade away from Sigurd.

  Away from the war.

  Away from the gods.

  And struck.

  The heavens screamed.

  Sigurd staggered back, his breath ragged, his gaze flicking between the silent gods and Ragnor, who stood unmoving. The weight of the truth pressed down on him like a mountain—there was no chosen one, no grand destiny, no divine favor. The gods had simply watched and waited, feeding on his victories, his failures, his wars.

  His voice cracked as he whispered, “Then what was it all for?” But no answer came. The gods, for all their vast power, gave him nothing.

  A choked, desperate laugh broke from his lips, turning into a snarl. His fingers tightened around his sword, shaking with rage. If the gods would not give him power, then he would take it. His eyes burned as they locked onto Ragnor.

  Scene 5: The Breaking of the Chain (Ragnor’s Final Choice)

  The heavens shattered.

  The battlefield trembled as Ragnor’s blade struck—not at Sigurd, not at the mortal flesh that had waged endless war, but at the very gods themselves.

  A sound like breaking stone and roaring tempests filled the world, a howl that was neither rage nor sorrow, but the wail of something ancient dying.

  The gods—those towering, flickering specters of light and shadow—reeled. Their forms twisted, their celestial fire dimming as cracks spread through their vast, insubstantial bodies.

  "You cannot—"

  The divine voices, once endless and omnipotent, wavered. Fear entered them.

  For the first time since the dawn of Albion, the gods were afraid.

  Ragnor did not stop.

  He slashed through their forms again, and again, tearing through the ethereal shackles that had bound generations in war. Every strike sent fissures of golden fire through the sky, unraveling the very foundation of fate itself.

  Selene and Astrid, watching from the ruins, shielded their eyes as the heavens flickered between existence and nothingness.

  Sigurd, still on his knees, his strength broken, stared in horror.

  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, no—”

  The gods began to flicker, their bodies collapsing in on themselves. Their voices rose in a cacophony of fractured echoes, no longer omniscient, no longer infinite.

  "This is not how it ends—"

  "The cycle must repeat—"

  "We must feed—"

  Ragnor’s final blow split the sky.

  A shockwave of power erupted from the battlefield, rushing outward in a torrent of wind and light. The heavens ruptured, the last remnants of the gods breaking apart, scattering into the void like dying embers.

  And then—

  Silence.

  The wind that had once carried the whispers of the divine had stilled.

  The battlefield, once a battleground of gods and men, was now nothing more than a ruin of stone and ash.

  Ragnor exhaled, lowering his blade. His body ached, his limbs heavy as the weight of lifetimes lifted from him.

  It was over.

  The gods were gone.

  The cycle was broken.

  Selene stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “…You did it.”

  Astrid, bloodied and barely standing, let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “Gods be damned.” She shook her head. “Or… I suppose not anymore.”

  Ragnor did not speak. He turned his gaze downward to Sigurd, who was still kneeling, his once-proud form trembling.

  The golden glow that had once marked Sigurd’s supposed divinity was gone. The power that had driven him, the endless certainty that he was chosen, had vanished.

  Without the gods, Sigurd was nothing more than a man.

  His breathing was ragged. His eyes, wide and desperate, searched for something—anything—to cling to.

  And found nothing.

  Sigurd’s body flickered, like a candle nearing its end. His form, once unshakable, began to unravel.

  Ragnor stepped toward him. The two men, once brothers in war, now stood at the edge of history.

  Sigurd lifted his gaze, his voice raw. “…Brother,” he whispered. “What have you done?”

  Ragnor did not answer.

  Sigurd reached for his blade, but his fingers passed through the hilt as if it were made of mist. His breath hitched. His body wavered, pieces of golden light breaking from his form, scattering into the wind.

  “…No,” he muttered. “No, I—”

  The light consumed him.

  And Sigurd, the so-called chosen king, faded into nothing.

  The storm had ended.

  The war was over.

  And the world stood, for the first time, without gods.

  A terrible silence followed the gods’ destruction, a stillness that stretched across the battlefield like the hush before a storm. Astrid clutched her wounded side, her breathing heavy as she watched from the ruins. She had fought wars, seen the fall of kings, but never had she felt the world shift like this.

  Selene swallowed hard beside her, watching the last traces of divine energy fade into the ether. “They’re really gone,” she whispered.

  Astrid let out a shuddering breath. “Then what happens now?”

  Selene had no answer. No one did. The world had never known a moment without gods, without fate guiding their hands. And now, the only man who had ever stood against it was walking away.

  Scene 6: Sigurd’s Final Moments (The Death of a King)

  The battlefield lay in silence.

  Ash drifted through the air like the last remnants of a dying world. The sky, once a roiling storm of fire and divine wrath, was now an empty void, a vast expanse unclaimed by gods.

  And in the center of it all, Ragnor stood motionless, his blade lowered, his breath slow and steady.

  Before him, Sigurd trembled.

  The man who had once stood as the harbinger of destiny, who had wielded the might of the gods as his birthright, now knelt in the ruins of his own delusion. His once-golden armor was dulled, tarnished, his hands trembling as he reached for something that no longer existed.

  His voice was hoarse. “…What have you done?”

  Ragnor did not reply.

  Sigurd gasped as his body flickered, the remnants of the divine energy that had once coursed through his veins unraveling thread by thread. His hands, once capable of felling empires, crumbled like dust before his eyes.

  “This is not how it was meant to be,” he rasped, his voice raw, laced with disbelief. “The gods… they chose me.”

  Ragnor watched in silence.

  Sigurd lifted his gaze, and for the first time, there was no arrogance, no fire of certainty—only fear.

  “Tell me, brother,” Sigurd whispered, his voice barely a breath, “what do I become… if I was never meant to rule?”

  The words hung between them, fragile as the wind.

  Then Sigurd exhaled sharply as his body wavered, flickering between reality and nothingness.

  Golden embers, the last remnants of his god-forged existence, lifted from his skin, dissolving into the air. His body slumped, his breath hitching. He was vanishing, piece by piece.

  He tried to rise, his fingers digging into the charred earth, but his strength was gone. There was nothing left of the man who had once declared himself a god.

  Sigurd looked up one final time, his expression no longer defiant, but hollow.

  “…Brother,” he said.

  Then, he was gone.

  The embers of his form scattered in the wind, and Sigurd, the warlord, the conqueror, the self-proclaimed king, was no more.

  Ragnor remained still.

  No triumph swelled in his chest, no victory cry escaped his lips. Only the weight of centuries settled upon his shoulders—the finality of an ending long foretold.

  Behind him, Astrid let out a weary breath.

  “It’s over,” she murmured, though the words felt too small for the moment.

  Selene, watching the fading remnants of Sigurd’s form, said nothing.

  And Ragnor…

  Ragnor did not move.

  For the first time in lifetimes, he did not know what came next.

  Sigurd’s body flickered, fragments of golden dust peeling away from his skin like embers drifting into the wind. His strength had been borrowed, his purpose assigned to him by forces that no longer existed. Without them, he was nothing.

  A trembling hand reached out, his voice little more than a rasp. “Brother… what have you done?”

  Ragnor did not answer. There was nothing to say.

  Sigurd collapsed into dust, carried away by the wind that swept across the ruined battlefield. The war was over, but the silence it left behind was heavier than any battle cry.

  Astrid exhaled sharply, forcing herself to stand despite the pain lancing through her ribs. She looked over the battlefield—at the wounded, the dead, the remnants of Albion’s army who had fought without knowing what would come next.

  “We need to move,” she muttered to Selene, her voice thick with exhaustion.

  “Where?” Selene asked, barely above a whisper.

  Astrid wiped the blood from her brow, scanning the distant horizon. “Anywhere but here.”

  Scene 7: A Throne Left Empty (Ragnor Walks Away from Power)

  The battlefield was silent.

  Not the silence of peace, nor of mourning, but the silence of something broken—something ancient and eternal that would never be whole again.

  The gods were gone. The war was over. The cycle had shattered.

  And yet, as the sun began to rise over the smoldering ruins of Albion’s final stand, the warriors who remained did not cheer. They did not cry out in victory. They only stood, watching, waiting, as if expecting the world to declare its next move.

  Ser Haldrik stepped forward, his bloodied sword hanging at his side. His voice, when he spoke, was rough with exhaustion.

  “You have won, Stormborn.” He inclined his head, cautious, reverent. “Albion is yours.”

  The words should have meant something. They should have carried weight, should have spoken of an age reborn.

  But Ragnor did not reply.

  His gaze swept across the battlefield—the bodies of the fallen, the warriors who still clutched their blades, waiting for a command that would never come. The ruins of the fortress loomed behind him, a testament to a history built on war, a legacy that had stretched beyond the memory of any living soul.

  And then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

  The warriors of Albion tensed. Some shifted uncertainly. Others, like Haldrik, frowned in confusion.

  Astrid’s brow furrowed. “Where is he going?”

  Selene, standing beside her, let out a slow breath, watching as Ragnor strode toward the horizon, his sword sheathed, his footsteps slow but unyielding.

  “He doesn’t know,” she murmured. Then, after a moment, she added, “And that is the point.”

  Ragnor did not turn back.

  He did not look at the throne that had been left empty, did not acknowledge the people who had fought and bled for his name.

  He simply walked—into the unknown, into a future unbound by prophecy or fate.

  For the first time in his many, many lives…

  He was free.

  The soldiers of Albion remained frozen as Ragnor turned his back to the ruined throne. Some expected him to change his mind, to turn and take the crown that had been left behind, but he never looked back.

  Ser Haldrik clenched his fists, his voice breaking through the stunned silence. “What do we do now?”

  Astrid straightened, ignoring the ache in her limbs. “We rebuild.”

  Selene, standing beside her, glanced at the sky. The storm had passed, but the world it had left behind was unfamiliar.

  “Then let’s begin,” she said.

  Scene 8: The Weight of Survival (Astrid and Selene’s Realization)

  The sky was clearing. The storm had passed. But the weight of what had been won—and what had been lost—settled over the battlefield like a shroud.

  Astrid stood in the ruins, her body trembling from exertion and blood loss. The battle had left its scars on them all, but she had never imagined she would live to see its end.

  Not like this.

  Selene was at her side, her face smudged with dirt and streaked with dried blood. She had fought until her magic burned out, her hands raw from summoning power that no longer had a place in this world.

  The gods were dead. Their war was over.

  And yet, victory did not taste as sweet as the old songs had promised.

  Astrid exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her ribs where her armor had been shattered. The pain flared, sharp and unyielding. She ignored it. There were others who had suffered more.

  Ser Haldrik approached, kneeling beside her. His own face was a mask of weariness, his sword still clutched tightly in his grip.

  “You were willing to die for this,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Astrid let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “And I still am.”

  She glanced around, watching as Albion’s warriors began the grim work of gathering their dead. There was no triumph in their eyes, only the quiet acceptance that came with survival.

  Selene, silent for a long moment, lifted her gaze to the sky—now empty of gods, of omens, of the unseen hands that had guided their ancestors for generations.

  For the first time, there were no voices whispering of destiny.

  No prophecies.

  No paths laid before them.

  Selene’s voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “So what do we do now?”

  No one had an answer.

  Because for the first time, they had to choose for themselves.

  Scene 9: The Storm Fades (The First Dawn of a New Era)

  The morning sun broke over the ruined battlefield, its golden light stretching long across the desolation. Smoke curled from the remains of once-mighty structures, and the earth was blackened with the blood of those who had fought, those who had fallen.

  But there was something different now.

  For the first time, the dawn came without divine eyes watching.

  Ragnor walked alone across the empty fields, his boots sinking into the damp earth. The wind whispered through the grass, carrying no omens, no voices of gods, only the sound of a world that had finally been freed.

  He did not look back.

  Behind him, the battlefield lay still. The warriors of Albion stood among the wreckage, uncertain of what came next.

  Astrid watched him go from a distance, one hand pressed to the wound at her side. Her face was unreadable, her piercing gaze following the lone figure disappearing toward the horizon.

  Selene stood beside her, silent for a long time.

  Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I think the storm is finally over.”

  Astrid exhaled, exhaustion finally catching up to her, but she did not look away.

  “For now,” she murmured.

  And as Ragnor walked on, the sun rose higher, and the sky stretched wide and endless before him.

  The war was over. The cycle was broken.

  But the future remained unwritten.

  The wind whispered through the tall grass as Ragnor walked, his silhouette growing smaller against the rising sun. He did not know where he was going, nor did he care. For the first time in his many lives, there was no throne to claim, no fate to fulfill—only the open road before him.

  Behind him, Astrid stood at the edge of the ruins, her bloodied hand resting on the broken stone. She had watched him ride into war a hundred times, had fought beside him, had seen him rise and fall like the tide.

  But she had never seen him walk away.

  Selene stood beside her, gazing at the same horizon. “I think the storm is finally over,” she murmured.

  Astrid nodded once, though deep in her heart, she knew the truth. “For now.”