Black Hollow rose before them like the bones of a giant—massive walls of blackened stone, their surface twisted by ancient magic and time's relentless touch. Fires burned in the windows like watchful eyes, and the wind that poured from its gates carried a scent of rot and secrets.
Leo stood at the front, his machete low, its rune pulsing faintly in the gloom. Every instinct told him to turn back. Every scar on his body itched with the memory of battles fought—and some he'd lost.
Kara's rifle rested across her chest, her grin gone, replaced by a tension that made every muscle taut. "Hell of a place to die," she muttered, eyes on the twisted battlements.
Jarek's axe gleamed as he shifted his grip. "Place like this don't die easy," he rumbled. "Got to rip the heart out. Or it comes back."
Aícha's staff glowed softly, its light barely reaching the fortress walls. Her voice was low, a whisper of dread. "The Herald's corruption is thick here," she said. "It's… hungry."
Leo's jaw clenched. "Then let's feed it steel," he growled.
They moved toward the gates, each step a defiance of the darkness that oozed from every crack in the stone. The gates themselves were old, carved with runes that had once shone with the Arcanists' magic—but now they flickered with shadows that seemed to breathe.
Kara reached out, tracing a finger across one of the runes. "Old wards," she said. "Dead wards. He's broken them."
Aícha's staff flared, her eyes narrowing. "He's inside," she whispered. "Waiting."
Leo's machete rose. "Then we end this," he said.
Jarek's axe swung onto his shoulder. "No mercy."
Kara's rifle clicked. "No surrender."
Aícha's staff glowed. "No darkness."
Leo's voice was iron. "No fear."
They pushed the gates open, the hinges screaming like tortured souls. Beyond lay a courtyard choked with ash and bone. Statues of warriors stood like sentinels, their faces eroded by time and magic alike.
Leo stepped into the courtyard, his machete a beacon. Shadows flickered along the edges of the stones, whispering secrets only the dead could hear.
"We make for the central tower," he said. "That's where he'll be."
Kara's grin returned, sharp and dangerous. "Let's knock."
Jarek's axe gleamed. "Let's break the door."
Aícha's staff flared. "Let's finish this," she whispered.
Because even in the darkness, even at the gates of the Fallen Star's lair, they would not bow.
The courtyard's silence pressed on them like a suffocating blanket, every step echoing with the memories of slaughter. Statues watched from the shadows—warriors turned to stone, their faces twisted in silent agony.
Leo moved at the front, machete low and ready. Each breath tasted of ash and iron, and the air seemed to hum with a voice too quiet to hear.
Jarek's axe swung in a slow arc, his eyes scanning every corner. "This place…" he rumbled. "It's alive."
Aícha's staff glowed faintly, her steps light but wary. "No," she whispered. "Not alive. It's waiting."
Kara's rifle rested at her shoulder, her grin replaced by a grim line. "For what?" she muttered.
Aícha's staff pulsed, her eyes flickering with dread. "For us," she said.
They crossed the courtyard to a staircase that rose like a broken spine toward the central tower. The steps were cracked, bloodstains darkening the stone like old wounds.
Leo paused at the base, his machete's rune flaring. "This is it," he growled. "Whatever's waiting, it's at the top."
Kara's grin returned, fierce and dangerous. "Then let's go kill it."
Jarek's axe gleamed in the dim light. "No mercy."
Aícha's staff glowed. "No darkness."
Leo's voice was iron. "No fear."
They climbed the stairs, each step an act of defiance. The air grew colder, the shadows thicker. Whispers followed them—voices that dripped with promises of power, of surrender.
Leo ignored them, his focus a blade honed by pain and purpose. But Kara's voice was tight. "You hear them, right?" she muttered.
Jarek's jaw clenched. "They're lies," he rumbled. "Just lies."
Aícha's staff trembled. "But they know us," she whispered. "They know our fears."
Leo's machete rose, its rune a shield against the darkness. "Then we show them who we are," he said.
They reached the landing before the tower door—a massive slab of blackened oak, runes carved deep into its surface. The air around it shimmered, like a heat mirage in the desert.
Aícha's staff flared, her eyes wide. "Illusions," she breathed. "Layers upon layers. He's hiding the truth."
Kara's grin was gone, her eyes sharp as glass. "Then let's rip it open."
Jarek's axe rose. "Together."
Leo's voice was a hammer. "No mercy."
Aícha's staff flared. "No darkness."
Leo's hand gripped his machete, his voice steady. "No fear."
With a single strike, he carved through the runes, the illusion shattering like glass. The door swung open, and darkness poured out—a living thing that crawled across the stones.
Inside the tower, the air was thick with whispers. Faces twisted in the shadows, voices that sounded like old friends, lost family, forgotten loves.
"Leo," a voice murmured, soft and broken.
Leo's breath caught. His mother's voice.
He tightened his grip on the machete, the rune blazing. "No," he growled. "You're dead. You've been dead for years."
The shadows recoiled, the voice twisting into laughter.
Kara's face went pale, her eyes darting. "Don't listen!" she hissed. "They're liars!"
Jarek's axe swung, carving the darkness like rotten wood. "They're nothing!" he roared.
Aícha's staff glowed bright, her runes spinning like a sun. "Hold the light!" she cried. "Hold it!"
Leo's machete rose. "No mercy," he snarled. "No surrender."
The darkness screamed, twisting around them like a living wound. But Leo pressed on, every step a defiance.
At the heart of the tower, a chamber awaited—walls lined with ancient runes, a throne of black stone at its center. And on that throne, the Herald waited.
His face was hidden behind a mask of iron, his eyes pits of darkness. His voice was a blade. "So," he hissed. "The last light of this world has come to die."
Leo's machete rose, its rune blazing like a star. "We are the light," he said.
Because even in the shadow's heart, they would not bow.
The air in the throne room was a living thing—thick and cold, heavy with the scent of old blood and burned magic. Shadows clung to the walls like hungry ghosts, whispering secrets that no living ear should hear.
Leo stood at the threshold, his machete burning in his grip, its rune a star in the darkness. Every breath felt like a struggle, every heartbeat a drum of defiance.
The Herald rose from his black throne, iron mask gleaming with a sickly light. His cloak shifted like smoke, his voice a broken promise. "You've come far, Leo Dormien," he hissed. "But the darkness is patient. It waits. It feeds. And it always wins."
Kara's rifle barked, her eyes blazing with fury. "Not today, bastard," she spat.
The Herald's laughter was a blade. "Little girl," he sneered. "Do you think your bullets can stop what's coming?"
Jarek's axe rose like a thunderhead, his voice a rumble. "We don't bow," he growled.
Aícha's staff flared, runes dancing like a sun. "We are the light," she whispered, her voice a song against the dark.
The Herald spread his arms, shadows swirling around him. "Then come," he hissed. "Show me your light."
Leo lunged, his machete blazing. Every step was a vow: no mercy, no surrender, no darkness, no fear. The blade met the Herald's cloak, sparks flying as light met shadow.
The Herald laughed, his form shifting like smoke. Blades of darkness lashed out, striking at Leo, Kara, Jarek, and Aícha in a dance of death.
Kara's rifle swung up, her finger pulling the trigger. The bullets found shadows, splitting them, but each time the darkness reformed. "Damn it!" she cursed. "He's everywhere!"
Jarek's axe swung in great arcs, carving lines of fire in the dark. "Then we cut him down—every piece!" he roared.
Aícha's staff blazed, her runes a shield. Her voice was a song of light, holding back the darkness as it clawed at her. "Hold the line!" she cried.
Leo's machete met the Herald's blade of shadow, sparks flying. The force of the impact rattled his bones, but he held fast.
"You're strong, Leo Dormien," the Herald hissed. "But strength alone cannot save you."
Leo's eyes burned. "No," he snarled. "But we can save each other."
A scream of darkness rose from the Herald as he lunged, his shadow-blade striking for Leo's heart. Leo's machete rose to meet it, the clash sending a shockwave through the chamber.
Kara's rifle cracked, a bullet of light piercing the shadows. Jarek's axe swung, splitting darkness with every blow. Aícha's staff blazed, runes spinning in a dance of defiance.
The Herald staggered, his mask cracking, shadows writhing like a nest of vipers. "No…" he hissed. "This is not… how it ends…"
Leo's voice was iron. "No mercy," he growled.
Kara's voice was a blade. "No surrender."
Jarek's voice was a mountain. "No darkness."
Aícha's voice was a song. "No fear."
Leo's machete rose, its rune blazing like a sun. "We are the light," he roared, his blade descending.
The Herald's scream split the darkness. Light exploded, shadows fleeing before it. The mask shattered, darkness poured out like blood.
Silence fell.
Leo stood at the center, his machete dripping with the last remnants of shadow. His breath was ragged, his heart steady.
Kara lowered her rifle, her grin returning. "Told you," she muttered. "Bastard couldn't take a bullet."
Jarek's axe rested on his shoulder, his voice a rumble. "He'll not rise again."
Aícha's staff dimmed, the runes settling into a soft glow. "For now," she whispered.
Leo's eyes burned with the promise of every vow they'd made. "Then we find the next one," he said. "Until the darkness is gone."
Because even at the heart of the Fallen Star's lair, even in the shadow's grasp, they would not bow.
The echoes of the battle faded, leaving only the sound of ragged breathing and the faint hiss of dying shadows. The throne room felt like a tomb now—cold, empty, the air heavy with the scent of burned magic and old blood.
Leo stood at the heart of it, his machete lowered, its rune dimmed. His chest rose and fell with every breath, each one a reminder that he was still alive.
Kara leaned against a shattered pillar, her rifle resting at her side. Sweat streaked her face, dirt smudging her cheek. "Damn," she muttered, her voice thin. "That was… close."
Jarek's axe rested on the ground, his hands heavy on the haft. His eyes were shadowed, his breath slow. "Too close," he rumbled. "We're alive. But at what cost?"
Aícha's staff glowed softly, her eyes closed as she whispered old words of healing. She looked pale, drawn, her strength spent in the battle's fury. "The darkness is gone," she said softly. "For now."
Leo turned his gaze to the shattered mask on the ground—the last remnant of the Herald. Black cracks split its surface, shadows still seeping like blood. He knelt, picking it up with trembling fingers.
"This was a man once," he said, his voice low. "A man who chose the darkness."
Kara's eyes hardened. "A choice he didn't get to regret," she said. "Not anymore."
Jarek's jaw tightened. "Others will make that choice," he growled. "As long as the Fallen Star's out there."
Aícha's staff dimmed. "Then we keep fighting," she whispered.
Leo stood, the mask in his hand. "No mercy," he said.
Kara's rifle clicked. "No surrender."
Jarek's axe rose. "No darkness."
Aícha's staff flared. "No fear."
Leo's eyes burned. "We are the light."
A hush fell. Even the dead seemed to listen.
Kara's grin returned, small and tired but defiant. "So what now, boss?" she asked.
Leo's machete rose. "We move," he said. "The Fallen Star won't wait. And neither will we."
Jarek's axe gleamed. "Where to?"
Leo turned his gaze to the fortress's broken window, where the night sky bled with dying stars. "Wherever the darkness grows," he said. "We'll find it. And we'll burn it out."
Aícha's staff glowed softly. "Together," she said.
Because even in victory's shadow, even when the price was steep, they would not bow.