The blood moon's glow painted the battlefield in shades of rust and ink as Zian gasped for breath, her dagger trembling in her grip. Nyxara's host circled her, their golden-cracked skin pulsing with stolen divinity.
*"You always were sentimental,"* Nyxara crooned through the student's lips. A flick of their wrist sent holy chains erupting from the ground, impaling three shadow soldiers. Zian screamed as their dissolution *burned* through her—each loss carving away another piece of her resurrected memories.
Kaen observed from the rubble, his silhouette blending with the encroaching darkness. *"Pathetic,"* he murmured—not to her, but to the writhing shadows at his feet. *"She's fighting with a child's hands."*
Then the whispers began.
From the cracks in the courtyard rose voices, a chorus of the forgotten:
*"General… you promised us vengeance."*
*"The God's blood still stains your wings."*
*"Remember the pact. Remember the* cost*."*
Zian's vision fractured. Another memory—*the real one*—flooded her senses:
*The God's corpse at her feet. Kaen's hand outstretched. Not offering power… but demanding payment.*
*"Your name,"* he'd said. *"Your past. Your grief. Give them to me, and I'll make you wrath incarnate."*
She'd agreed.
Now, the shadows at Nyxara's feet *twisted*, forming a gaunt figure with no face—just a yawning void where features should be. The first pact-holder.
Nyxara *flinched*.
Kaen's laughter cut through the night as Zian's dagger found its mark.