The arena was collapsing into chaos.

  Thaddeus and Sera fought shoulder to shoulder, a fading beacon of resistance in a field of rising darkness. Sera moved like a phantom, her blades of shadow slashing through demon after demon, while Thaddeus met each charge with crackling force, his sword glowing faintly with the last reserves of his radiant magic.

  But it was a battle of attrition.

  And they were losing ground.

  The rift in the center of the arena, jagged and pulsing, continued to pour out new horrors—twisted creatures of claw and flame, many bearing the marks of the Abyss. Every second brought more.

  Students who had never witnessed battle, and spectators who had come to witness a ceremonial tradition, gathered in the arena. Noble heirs, still in their robes, some with barely awakened magic, stood amidst the chaos.

  Some fought valiantly for their lives, while others had already succumbed to the fray. Blood, ash, and screams filled the air as the battle raged on, with fighters and spectators alike fleeing for their lives.

  Unfortunately, many did not escape the arena alive.

  Blood soaked the arena’s floor. Bodies—young and old—littered the edges of the stands. A child’s rite of succession had become a massacre.

  And above it all, Malcom stood on the fractured royal platform, calm and poised with a smile. His arms were outstretched, corrupted celestial shards orbiting him like the remnants of a shattered crown.

  “You see it now,” he called out, his voice rising above the screams. “Order is an illusion. The throne means nothing in the hands of cowards. This kingdom was always destined to burn.”

  He raised a hand, and the shards surged forward.

  Thaddeus threw up a ward of light just in time, staggering under the force of the impact. Sera launched a wave of shadow magic, scattering two charging demons, but the exhaustion in her limbs was catching up.

  They could still fight.

  But not forever.

  Then, the sky itself seemed to hold its breath.

  A pulse swept across the arena. Not sound. Not light. Something deeper.

  A presence.

  And then—the aura.

  It fell like a star collapsing inward, heavy and absolute. It wasn’t divine, and it wasn’t light. It was celestial. Starlit judgment—purifying, blazing, and suffocating in its intensity.

  Every demon stopped. Even the rift pulsed, flickered.

  Malcom’s head turned sharply, his grin faltering.

  Thaddeus froze mid-swing, his chest tightening beneath the weight of it. Sera glanced toward the far edge of the battlefield, her eyes wide.

  Then they saw him.

  Through the smoke and ash, a lone figure emerged from the shadowed entryway.

  Armor cracked. Cape torn. Blood along his jaw.

  But standing.

  Crest glowing faintly on his chestplate. A massive, star-forged sword strapped across his back. His eyes—cold and sharp—reflected the battlefield like a canvas of failure.

  The King.

  Alive.

  He stepped forward in silence, passing mangled bodies—students, nobles, guards. The young, the helpless. All lost in a war they hadn’t chosen.

  He said nothing.

  But the pressure of his arrival, the killing intent in his celestial aura, spoke for him.

  Retribution had come.

  Malcom’s corrupted magic dimmed slightly, faltering as the weight settled on his shoulders. For the first time since the slaughter began, he hesitated.

  “Father,” Malcom said, voice thin beneath the pressure. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

  The King stared at him.

  The smoke curled around his armor. Blood stained the torn edges of his cape. His sword, still sheathed, sat heavy on his back like a judgment waiting to be passed.

  He said nothing at first.

  Just looked at Malcom—really looked at him.

  And in his eyes, not anger.

  Not yet.

  Just hurt.

  His gaze drifted past Malcom, to the shattered dais, to the queen’s body lying unmoving and broken beside the scorched throne. His jaw tightened.

  “You killed her,” the King said finally, voice low and brittle. “You killed your own mother.”

  Malcom’s smile faltered for half a second—just long enough to show the fracture underneath.

  “I trusted you,” the King continued, softer now. “You had everything.”

  Malcom’s expression twisted. “I had your control.”

  His aura exploded outward as he lunged, celestial-abyssal shards spiraling around him in a whirlwind of warped energy. The corrupted magic screamed toward the King, wild and violent.

  The King didn’t move.

  Not yet.

  His hand hovered over the hilt of his blade.

  Hesitating.

  This was still his son.

  Even now.

  The shards came closer.

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  And the hesitation broke.

  With a flash of movement, the sword came free—a star-forged arc that shattered the first volley in a single strike. Celestial force erupted in a shockwave, rippling across the arena as the King stepped forward into the storm.

  Grief twisted into something darker.

  The King’s eyes never left Malcom, even as shards of corrupted magic began to spiral toward him again. He didn’t raise his blade—not yet. He stood still, shoulders squared, voice low and heavy with finality.

  “You’re not my son,” he said. “That boy died the moment he raised a blade against his own blood.”

  Malcom let out a sharp, cruel laugh. “No, Father. I’m alive and well.”

  He spread his arms, Abyssal-celestial power swirling around him like a storm barely contained.

  “I’ve never felt more like myself.”

  The King’s expression didn’t change. Not anymore.

  He reached for his blade—slow, deliberate.

  “No,” he said quietly. “You’re something else now. And I will bury it here.”

  His aura surged.

  Celestial power poured from him like the collapse of a star—cold, infinite, and final. The very air trembled under its weight as his blade lit with the shimmer of constellations long extinguished.

  Malcom conjured another volley of shards, but the King was already moving—closing the distance in a streak of blinding force, his sword carving the air like a comet.

  This was no longer a father facing his son.

  This was a King delivering judgment.

  The battlefield behind him, engulfed in smoke and ash, was invisible to Lorian. Aldric and the demons were retreating as they raced to regroup with Malcom, the fallen Prince. Lorian focused solely on one figure, approaching slowly, oblivious to the battlefield’s destruction.

  Zephyr lay sprawled beneath him, gasping, arms limp at his sides. The man who had once been a rival in battle now lay broken and silent—the traitor who had handed Elara over like a bargaining chip.

  Abyssal magic seethed from Lorian’s body, black and roiling, choking the air around him. The corrupted energy bled from his skin, cracked the ground beneath his boots, and pulsed through the blade gripped in both hands.

  He raised the sword high over Zephyr’s chest.

  “Lorian.”

  Lysara’s voice cut through the storm behind him. She stood several paces away, whip crackling faintly in her hand, her expression unreadable—but her eyes asked the question he already knew.

  Are you sure you want to do this?

  Lorian didn’t speak. He only turned his head slightly—just enough for her to see his golden-colored eyes.

  Cold, ruthless, and unforgiving.

  Lysara’s lips parted like she might say more… but she said nothing.

  Lorian turned back.

  And drove the blade down.

  CLANG.

  A clawed hand caught the sword mid-strike, stopping it inches from Zephyr’s chest. Abyssal sparks exploded from the contact.

  Cyrthal stood between them, fangs bared in a grin far too wide.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he purred, voice velvet and venom. “Can’t have you breaking my new toy already.”

  Lorian shoved forward, but the sword refused to move. Cyrthal didn’t flinch.

  With a casual flick, he ripped the blade from Lorian’s grip and cast it aside like trash. Then he reached down, grabbed Zephyr by the collar, and yanked him upright. Zephyr dangled from his grip, barely conscious.

  “You’ve done your part well,” Cyrthal mused, draping a possessive arm around Zephyr’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, he’ll be put to better use than you ever imagined.”

  Lysara’s whip cracked through the air.

  It surged forward, laced with Abyssal energy, aiming straight for Cyrthal’s throat.

  But the demon was already moving.

  He ducked the strike effortlessly, twisting aside with Zephyr still in hand. The whip slammed into the earth with a blast of force, carving a deep scar into the battlefield where he had just stood.

  Cyrthal’s grin sharpened as he straightened, still holding Zephyr like a trophy.

  “We’ll come for you next, prince,” he said, eyes locked on Lorian. “You’ve already cracked. All that’s left is for you to break.”

  Then he turned and sprinted across the ruined field, Zephyr’s feet dragging behind him.

  Aldric. Izhaldrath. The remaining demons fell in beside him as they regrouped.

  Cyrthal didn’t look back.

  He didn’t need to.

  Lorian remained standing in the silence, chest heaving, hands empty.

  The sword was gone.

  The traitor was gone.

  And behind him, Lysara lowered her whip—saying nothing, but watching him like she was seeing a version of him she didn’t recognize.

  And maybe…

  He didn’t either.

  Footsteps echoed behind them—quick, steady, deliberate.

  Lysara turned.

  Aric crested the slope of broken stone, cloak trailing ash, his blade drawn, breath shallow. The blood on his armor was half-dried. His eyes swept the battlefield, heart already pounding before he saw her.

  “Elara.”

  He was at her side in moments, dropping to his knees. He checked her pulse, his fingers trembling.

  “She’s alive,” he murmured, relief flooding his voice. “Thank the stars.”

  Then his eyes rose—and met Lorian’s.

  There was no warmth in them.

  Only quiet devastation.

  Lorian didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Abyssal magic still clung to his skin like oil, and his hands—his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Aric looked down at Elara again. He gathered her into his arms with care, as if afraid she might vanish.

  “I should’ve gotten here sooner,” he whispered.

  He stood slowly, Elara’s body held close to his chest.

  Then, to Lorian—his voice steady, but cold:

  “Was it worth it?”

  Lorian flinched.

  Lysara stepped forward, as if to intercept whatever came next, but Aric didn’t move. He just looked at the boy he once raised like his own.

  “I don’t know what you’ve become,” he said, softer now, “but she still needs saving.”

  Before Aric could turn to leave, Cerys approached, her armor scraped and dented, her stride tired but purposeful.

  “We have a bigger problem,” she said, cutting through the silence. “Aldric escaped. So did two demons—Cyrthal and Izhaldrath. They’re regrouping with the others.”

  Aric’s brows furrowed. “Demons?”

  He looked between them, uncertain, unsettled. “You’re saying there were demons here?”

  Cerys gave a sharp nod. “And they weren’t alone.”

  She hesitated, then delivered the final blow.

  “They’re answering to someone.”

  “…Who?”

  Her eyes met his.

  “Malcom.”

  The name hit like a blow to the chest.

  Aric’s arms instinctively tightened around Elara. He shook his head once, disbelieving. “The prince? That’s not possible.”

  Cerys’s voice was steady. “It is. He’s orchestrating this—he’s leading them.”

  For a long moment, Aric said nothing.

  Just stood there, frozen in place, the truth settling over him like a stone.

  Then—he moved.

  “She needs care,” he said quietly, offering Elara out toward Cerys. “And so do you.”

  Cerys accepted the weight of the girl without protest. “And you?”

  “I’m going after them.” His voice hardened. “If Malcom’s behind this… I need to see it with my own eyes.”

  He paused before turning.

  His eyes found Lorian one last time.

  There was hesitation there. A hundred things he might have said.

  But he said none of them.

  He just nodded—once—then turned and sprinted into the smoke, toward the heart of the chaos.

  Cerys watched him disappear, then looked down at the girl in her arms.

  She looked to Lorian.

  Not with anger. Not with fear.

  With quiet finality.

  “You helped us. I won’t forget that.”

  Her gaze dropped briefly to the Abyssal magic still flickering across his skin, then to the demon standing beside him.

  “But you’re with her. And you’re using that magic.”

  She adjusted Elara in her arms.

  “I saw promise in you. It’s a pity.”

  A breath.

  “You know what the law says.”

  She met his eyes one last time.

  “I’ll take care of your sister.”

  Then she turned and walked away—leaving Lorian behind.