The world was quiet now.
Where war had once shaken the bones of reality, now only winds whispered across the shattered plains. No divine flame. No wrathful armies. Only dust, ash, and the slow rebuild of something fragile.
Shadow stood atop a ridge, armor scorched, wings long since dismissed. His blade rested at his side, buried halfway in the earth like a marker. Around him, a dozen scattered figures—his generals, his closest warriors—stood without command, as though waiting for orders that would never come.
Lidow sat on a stone just behind him, watching the sun rise for the first time in months without screaming skies or dying gods.
He squinted. "It's… beautiful."
Shadow didn't turn. "It's new. That's why."
Valarie approached from behind them, a half-smile on her face. Her white robes, once sacred garments of the Light, now fluttered loose over dark armor. A symbol of the two worlds she'd chosen to merge.
"The rebuilding begins today," she said. "Our messengers ride to the outposts. What's left of them."
Shadow nodded. "And the Council?"
"They're waiting… but cautious. Many still see you as a threat."
"I am."
Lidow frowned. "You won."
"That doesn't make me safe," Shadow said, finally turning to his son. "Victory doesn't cleanse blood. It just gives it a place to settle."
The demon cities were quiet. The rivers of molten soulfire now flowed slowly, without screams. Shadow's throne—obsidian and jagged—sat untouched in the Hall of Embers.
He hadn't returned to it.
Not yet.
Instead, he and Valarie had taken refuge in the hills of the lowlands, where green returned. A home built in silence. Lidow had his own chamber, though he rarely stayed still.
Sometimes he walked the old roads. Sometimes he sparred with Valgorr. And sometimes—when no one was watching—he stared into the sword he used to sever a god and whispered apologies.
Weeks passed.
Shadow began to walk the capital again, cloaked, hooded, unannounced. The people—human, demon, forsaken alike—watched him. Not with hate.
With fear.
With hope.
And that was worse.
One morning, Valarie stepped onto the balcony of their stone home, fingers wrapped around a cup of darkroot tea.
Lidow was already out there, shirtless, bruised, blade on his back, sweat shining on his face.
"You don't rest."
He shrugged. "Feels wrong to rest."
"Your father used to say the same thing."
He paused. "Used to?"
She looked out toward the horizon. "He's changing. Quietly. But it's there."
Lidow was silent for a while. Then he asked, "Do you love him?"
She smiled softly. "Every part of him. Even the ones he wishes I didn't."
That night, Shadow stood alone before the Hall of Embers.
The doors creaked open.
Inside, his throne waited.
He walked to it, slow and heavy, then sat—not with pride, but with purpose.
The chamber dimmed.
And then the generals came.
Seren. Valgorr. Kaeth. Others—half-broken but loyal.
They knelt.
And Shadow said just one word: "Rise."
No more battles.
Not yet.
But the future—the weight of holding peace—was a war of its own.