The snow around the stronghold had long since been churned into slush and ash.
Zera moved through the battlefield like a thunderbolt in human form, her cloak snapping behind her in the howling wind. Beside her, Dalen roared like a furnace, flames blooming from the length of his blade as he carved through the enemy's monstrous ranks. Clarent pulsed in Zera's grip, responding to her fury with a rhythm of its own. Every Falzath beast in their path shrieked in agony as the sacred blade cleaved through flesh, bone, and corruption alike.
They were closing in on the last southern stronghold bordering Laginaple's western edge. The fortress squatted like a bloated leech, its walls slick with dark moss, its towers crowned with flame-fed eyes. It had become a festering shrine to the Falzath's twisted vision—a nexus for the corruption still bleeding into the western continent.
Zera's eyes narrowed. "Dalen. Ready to breach."
He gave a nod and spun, unleashing a crescent of fire that blew the gate apart in a flash of roaring heat. Stone turned to slag. Steel warped and melted. Screams rose from within as Falzath cultists scrambled to recover.
Zera surged forward.
The moment she crossed the threshold, her crest blazed. The crimson mark over her heart pulsed wildly, veins of light webbing down her arms. Clarent responded in kind, its blade extending slightly, shimmering with Dragonheart essence. Every strike now cleaved deeper than steel. It sundered reality itself, unraveling the Falzath's grip with each swing.
Dalen kept to her flank, twin arcs of flame creating a ring of scorched ground. Together, they became a storm. Cultists fell like wheat. Beasts, summoned and mutated by Falzath rites, collapsed under the assault.
Zera reached the altar first.
The shrine was a twisted monument of bone, crystal, and blackened vines. A half-dissolved humanoid figure was shackled to it, its torso split open and used as a conduit for corruption. A Falzath priest, robed in scaled flesh, turned with a hiss.
"You carry the traitor's light," he spat. "Clarent should have died with the last of the Soma."
Zera leveled her sword. "Clarent survives. As will the truth."
She charged. Their clash sent shockwaves through the chamber. The priest wielded a blade forged from pure rot, yet Clarent blazed like the wrath of heaven. With a scream, Zera brought the sword down in an arc that cleaved through the priest's guard, shoulder, and soul.
The relic behind him exploded.
The blast flung her backward. As she landed, visions surged into her mind.
Tristan stood in the ruins of the Soma council chamber, the bodies of Elders around him. Mariam stood behind him, wounded but defiant.
"They refused the pact," she whispered. "They doubted your blood."
Tristan's eyes blazed. "Then let their legacy burn."
Voryn stepped from the shadows, a wisp of rot and promise.
"One bloodline must survive," he said. "And one must remember."
He handed Tristan a shard of the Crest of Elders. "Make your mark."
Tristan took it, carving it into his own chest.
Zera screamed as the vision snapped.
Dalen caught her.
"What did you see?" he asked.
Zera's eyes were wide, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"The truth of Soma. The Crest of Elders was split. Part of it lives in Tristan. The other..."
Her voice shook. "Is in Shin."
Clarent pulsed.
Zera rose. "This isn't just about Falzath anymore. This is about our legacy."
Outside, the wind changed. In the distance, the sky cleared.
The rebellion pressed forward.
The west was awakening.
And in the dark, Voryn stirred.
The game was far from over.