The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Steel clashed, flames roared, and screams of the dying melded with the war cries of those still standing. In the heart of it all, Zareth and Kaelric fought—a collision of raw force against merciless precision.
Zareth lunged, his greatsword a blur of motion. Kaelric twisted away, his twin blades intercepting the attack with a crackling force that sent sparks flying. Their weapons clashed again and again, each strike forcing the other to adapt, to evolve, to push beyond their limits.
Kaelric's Aetherbrand Aspect was unlike anything Zareth had faced before. At first, he had mistaken it for a simple severance technique—cutting through energy, disrupting the flow of Aetherbrand Essence. But as the battle raged on, Zareth realized the truth.
This was something far beyond mere severance.
Kaelric's Aspect didn't just sever—it consumed.
Where his blades struck, Zareth's Aetherbrand Essence didn't merely dissipate; it was pulled away, drawn into Kaelric's weapons and used to fuel his next attacks. It wasn't simply a matter of avoiding his strikes—every missed parry, every failed dodge, gave Kaelric more power.
Zareth scowled as the realization settled in. This wasn't just a counter—it was a slow execution. A technique designed to break even the strongest warriors by feeding off their own power.
A lethal Aspect.
But not an unbeatable one.
Kaelric's eyes flickered with confidence, sensing the advantage tilting in his favor. He was wrong.
Beyond their duel, the battle was shifting.
Veyron and the others still held the defensive lines, but the Dominion forces had adapted. They were using siege formations now, pressing forward in coordinated waves, driving Zareth's warriors back.
Draven, who had thrived in the chaos of the early battle, was now being hunted. The Dominion had recognized his deadly ambush tactics and had begun sending counter-assassins after him.
The city itself was breaking apart. Smoke filled the air, rooftops collapsed under the weight of battle, and the streets were painted with blood.
Zareth could hear it all—the war shifting against him.
And yet, he did not break focus.
He could not.
Because Kaelric was still standing.
Kaelric vanished. A flicker of movement, and then he was upon Zareth from the side—both blades aiming for the kill.
Zareth pivoted, barely catching the first strike with his greatsword. The second blade carved into his side, Aetherbrand Essence ripping away from him as Kaelric's Aspect drained it.
A minor wound. But wounds against this enemy were not measured in blood lost. They were measured in power stolen.
Kaelric smirked. "You're strong. But strength alone—"
Zareth moved.
A brutal, unexpected step forward.
Not away from Kaelric's blade, but toward it.
Kaelric's strike pierced through his chest.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze. Even Kaelric's expression faltered, caught between shock and satisfaction.
Then Zareth's hand clamped onto Kaelric's wrist.
A vice grip.
An unbreakable hold.
Kaelric's eyes widened. He tried to pull away, to retreat, but it was too late.
Zareth roared.
Aetherbrand Essence surged—not fleeing his body, but inverting. Flowing backward.
And for the first time in the fight, Kaelric lost something.
His Aspect had always been about taking. No one had ever turned it against him. No one had ever thought to drag him into the abyss he created.
Kaelric's body spasmed as his own stolen power was ripped from him.
His strength dwindled.
Zareth's grip tightened.
And with one final movement, he drove his greatsword through Kaelric's torso.
A decisive strike.
A victory seized by sacrifice.
Kaelric staggered, his twin blades falling from his grasp.
He looked down at the wound impaling him, at the blood pouring from his mouth. His expression was unreadable—shock, disbelief, and something almost like understanding.
Zareth released him, letting the body drop. He turned his gaze to the battlefield, taking in the burning city, the remnants of the Dominion forces still fighting.
But they had seen it.
They had seen their strongest warrior fall.
And the fear was already setting in.
The Dominion forces began to retreat.
Zareth exhaled, pain blooming in his chest from his self-inflicted wound. But he did not fall.
He had won.
But the war was far from over.