Ezra rose from the rubble—limping, scorched, but undefeated.
His robes were in tatters. Blood streamed from his left eye, a result of psionic backlash. The blade in his hand pulsed faintly, as though bonded not to his palm, but to his very will.
Across from him stood the Warden, once a monolith of madness—now a flickering remnant of bygone glory. His aura dimmed, unraveling like a tapestry left in ruin.
"Your dominion ends here, relic."Ezra's voice was hoarse, but resolute. Every word carried the weight of a crown no longer denied.
The Warden did not reply. Instead, his broken form ignited in one final surge of ancestral pride.
Chains of memory burst from his body—incorporeal, spectral, writhing with thought and grief. The Asylum howled. Reality itself twisted. Walls melted into screams. Ezra's memories blurred, threatened to be consumed.
His name nearly vanished from existence.
Yet—
"ENOUGH!"
Ezra roared, soul roaring louder than the storm. He blinked forward—an explosion of motion—and drove his blade clean through the Warden's heart.
A strangled gasp left the old knight's lips.
The storm… died.
Ezra pulled back, letting the Warden collapse to his knees. Dust and regret pooled beneath him.
"Confess. Repent. Reign—?"
Ezra raised his sword again, calm and cruel.
"No. You don't even deserve repentance."
The battlefield fell into silence.
Then—space cracked.
A ripple surged through the Asylum, as if memory itself fractured. The veil between past and present tore open.
Light spilled through the rent.
And Ezra saw—
[Memory Fragment: The End of the Queen]
The sky above the ancient Citadel wept violet flame. The horizon split as stars bled their last light.
And still—within the Sanctum—she stood.
The Late Queen.
Blood dripped from her fingers as she carved the last rune. Her breath was shallow. Her crown fractured. And yet… she smiled. A birth smile, not of joy—but of meaning.
The Warden knelt before her, pride shattered, soul unraveling.
"Don't ask this of me…" he pleaded, broken. "Don't make me live without you."
Her hand, soft and trembling, cupped his face.
"You always feared death," she whispered. "But I feared something worse…"
"That you'd forget who you are—once I'm gone."
And then, with bloodied fingers, she drew her sigil on his brow.
"You are the Shield. The Guardian. The flame that does not consume."
Their foreheads touched. Their breath merged.
"Guard the Sanctum. Guard the memory. Even if you hear me scream… you do not come."
She turned—alone—toward the throne.
The enemy breached.
And he—
He ran.
"She needs me…"
He shattered her seal. He disobeyed her final command.
He found her—surrounded, dying, yet smiling.
"You disobeyed me," she said gently, the spell already complete. "Goodbye… my beloved."
And then—
Light.
Ash.
Silence.
[Present: The Dying Knight]
Ezra stood above the Warden, the echo of the Queen's voice still ringing in his soul.
The old knight coughed blood and looked at him—not as an enemy, but as a witness to his shame.
"I was her sword," he murmured, tears streaking down the ash on his face."But I chose love… when I should have chosen duty."
"They called me Pride…" A smile cracked his lips. "But it was grief. Selfishness. Weakness disguised as devotion."
He reached forward—not in defiance, but to offer his final blessing.
"You remind me of her," he whispered. "Her fire. Her mercy."
"Be what I failed to be… Guard her. Even if she begs you not to."
His form crumbled—ashes caught in starlight.
And then—
She spoke again.
The voice of the Queen, eternal and kind:
"Welcome home… my Hollow King…""…Lancelot of the Lake."
Ezra's breath caught.
The name fell on him like a curse wrapped in divinity. Lancelot. He saw it now—understood it.
The Warden was not simply a tyrant, nor just a ghost.
He was a knight. A legend. A tragedy.
One who had chosen love—and paid the price.
Now, Ezra knelt. Not in defeat—but in reverence.
"I'll protect her. I swear it," he whispered. "I won't let her become Guinevere."
Behind him, the Asylum stilled.
Far beneath its root, the last dream of a lost Queen faded, grateful.
Ezra rose once more.
No longer just a Hollow King.No longer merely the usurper of Pride.
He was its rightful heir.
A successor, chosen by sorrow, tempered by memory—
And crowned by the ghost of love.