The castle burned in silence.
Even the screams had long since turned to whispers — ghosts clinging to stone. The banners of the Demon King's lineage, once draped across the throne like pride, now lay torn in the dirt, soaked in ash and blood.
He stood alone.
Scorched, broken, kneeling.
His arms no longer moved as they once did. His puppets — all gone. Shattered strings, twisted wood. He hadn't even seen which hero struck the final blow. Maybe he had. Maybe he was too tired to care.
Above him, the great stained-glass windows had cracked, splintering beams of light into warped colors that didn't quite reach the floor. The throne room stank of holy steel and burnt marrow.
He had fought until he couldn't stand, thought until he couldn't feel. There was nothing left in him now.
Except memory.
They had called themselves "heroes."
He remembered their blades—how they glowed with blessings, how they cut through demon kin like scythes through wheat. One by one, his people fell. Not in battle. Not in war. In slaughter.
He had once believed in strength. In preparation. In building walls high enough to stop what was coming. But what defense was there against fate? Against a world that crowned only humans as heroes?
The others — elves, ogres, beastkin, demons — waited for generations, but no miracles ever came. And so the humans claimed it as proof. Proof that only they were worthy. That the rest were meant to kneel.
His people begged for protection.
And he had sworn to give it.
Now their corpses littered the hills, their souls abandoned by every god, and he… he knelt, watching her fall.
Elin.
She wasn't just his daughter.
She was their last light. Their last chance.
The blade pierced her chest clean through. Her fingers twitched in the air as she fell. He reached for her — but the distance stretched like a curse.
He had sworn to protect her. And still, she died.
Not with grandeur. Not with peace.
Just a dull thud against the earth.
He stared, unblinking, until the firelight dimmed.
Snow tapped against the wooden shutters. Wind howled like wolves beyond the valley. And inside the dim barracks, he sat curled beneath a threadbare blanket, heart pounding like it had just outrun death.
His palms were open.
His eyes wet.
He remembered the blood. Not from battle — from her.
His wife hadn't died on the battlefield.
She died screaming his name, the night Elin was born.
Magic surged from her body like it couldn't decide whether to kill or bless. Her veins turned gold. Her skin split with the glow of the child's power.
And when the baby cried — when those three marks lit the air — her mother's breath caught.
One final time.
No one else saw it.No one else heard her last words.But he did.
"Make her smile. At least once. Even if I'm not there."
He had nodded. Too stunned to speak.He had kissed her temple.And then she was gone.
A creak.
The shutters loosened in the wind.
Light spilled through the cracks — not golden, but soft and gray, like morning after snowfall. The wind rushed in, brushing across his face, and with it… something else.
His tears scattered into the air.
And as they did — as his vision cleared —
he heard it.