The world was quiet after the storm.
For the first time in weeks, there was no thunder in Leon's chest. No blood on his hands. Only the steady rhythm of Astra's heartbeat against his.
She was real.
Alive.
And the past, though not undone, had been tempered.
But peace, as always, was fleeting.
---
Ashes and Embers
They took refuge in a forgotten temple beneath the mountains—a place where the First Flame once burned before the old gods faded.
It was quiet here.
Astra rested in the sanctum, guarded by celestial wards Elyra had drawn herself, while Vex tinkered with surveillance drones outside the perimeter.
Leon stood alone before the Flame Altar—a cracked stone dais now cold, its divine fire extinguished centuries ago.
His thoughts were a maelstrom.
The Void King's anchors were gone, yes.
But he could feel it. The tide was shifting.
The real war was just beginning.
---
The Dreamwalker's Warning
Night came, and with it—her.
The Dreamwalker.
A ghost wrapped in veils of mist and sorrow. She stepped from the veil of sleep into Leon's dreamscape—a field of broken stars and burning skies.
"You've taken your first steps, God-King," she said, her voice soft but heavy. "But the path ahead is fraught with betrayal."
Leon faced her, calm. "You've spoken in riddles since the beginning. Give me something real."
She tilted her head. "Very well. In three days' time, you will face a choice—save the one you love… or save the world."
Leon's eyes narrowed. "I'll do both."
She smiled sadly. "Spoken like a god. But you're still human… for now."
She faded, leaving behind a single word etched in fire:
ZERATHEON.
---
Council of Flame
Leon awoke to urgency.
Elyra stood at the doorway, armor partially donned, her expression grave.
"We've received a message from the Phoenix Enclave."
Leon blinked. "They still exist?"
"Barely. They claim to have found something… someone. A First Flame Guardian, long thought dead."
Vex entered next, eyes sharp.
"They've requested your presence specifically. Said the Guardian will only speak to the one who bears the Ashen Mark."
Leon instinctively touched the faint burn on his chest—a mark that had appeared after he destroyed the first Void Anchor. One he had never understood.
Until now.
---
Flight Through Fire
The journey to the Phoenix Enclave was perilous.
High above the volcanic belt, their ship sliced through ash clouds and ember storms. Strange winged beasts chased them through the sky—creations warped by the fading barrier between realms.
Leon stood at the helm, hands clenched.
He could feel it again.
A presence. Watching. Waiting.
When they arrived, the Enclave was in ruins. Once a citadel of light, now a crumbling fortress wrapped in blackened vines and scorch marks.
But the heart still burned.
A single pyre still lived.
And before it knelt a man of flame.
---
The Guardian of Zeratheon
He was tall, with skin like bronze and eyes of molten gold. His armor shimmered with ancient runes, and his hair flowed like fire in slow motion.
He looked up as Leon approached.
"You carry the Ashen Mark," he said. "Then the prophecy is true."
"Who are you?" Leon asked.
"I am Tharos, last of the First Flame Guardians. I watched the world fall… and waited for you."
Tharos stood, and the fire around him bowed.
"You are the one who must reclaim Zeratheon—the Blade of Eternity. Forged by the gods. Lost during the Collapse. It alone can sever the Void King's soul."
Leon's pulse quickened. "Where is it?"
Tharos turned.
"In the Ashspire. But beware… the path to the blade is guarded by the echoes of every wielder who failed. Only one who has died and returned may claim it."
---
Trial of Embers
They set out the same day.
The Ashspire rose from the center of the volcanic belt, a spire of obsidian surrounded by eternal flame. None had entered and returned.
At its base, Tharos inscribed a glyph upon Leon's chest.
"This will protect you for a time. But within, your power will be tested. Not against monsters… but against yourself."
Leon stepped into the fire.
And vanished.
---
The Inner War
He awoke in a mirror world.
An endless wasteland of ash and sky.
Before him stood himself.
But not as he was now.
This was Leon the Tyrant—the version of him that had chosen destruction after Astra's first death. The one who burned cities and shattered worlds.
"You came," Tyrant-Leon said, smiling darkly. "To face what you could become."
Leon summoned his blade. "I'm not you."
The Tyrant laughed. "Not yet."
The battle began—not of swords, but of wills.
Every doubt, every fear, every failure—manifested into shadows that tried to drag Leon down.
"You can't save her," they whispered. "You'll lose her again."
"You'll lose everything."
Leon knelt.
Shaking.
Breaking.
Until—
"I've already lost it all once."
His voice rose like fire.
"And I came back."
A wave of divine light erupted from him—searing the shadows, banishing the Tyrant.
And before him, rising from the ash—
Was the blade.
---
Zeratheon
Forged of starlight and divine flame, Zeratheon shimmered with purpose.
Leon reached for it.
And the world trembled.
Power surged through him—ancient, righteous, boundless.
And something else.
A memory.
A whisper from the blade.
"Remember who you are. And why you fight."
---
The God-King Returns
Leon stepped from the Ashspire, Zeratheon in hand.
The skies cracked.
The air trembled.
And far beyond the veil, the Void King screamed.