The Morgrave Plains burned beneath a sky split by fire.
Armies stretched from horizon to horizon—banners of the seven kingdoms fluttering against a tide of demon standards, black and crimson. The ground shook with the march of thousands, the air thick with the scent of ash and fear. At the center, Kael stood between two worlds, his sword gleaming with runes, his heart pounding with dread and resolve.
General Lira Valen rode at the head of the human host, her armor battered, her eyes fierce. Beside her, Vaessara led the demon rebels—horns gleaming, cloak billowing, her gaze locked on the distant figure atop a throne of flame.
Azhakar the Bound Flame, Demon King, watched the battlefield with a smile that promised ruin.
The first charge was chaos—steel against claw, magic against fire. Kael fought at the vanguard, his power unleashed at last. Flames danced along his blade, and every demon that fell before him seemed to recognize him, whispering his name in terror and awe.
But the tide was endless. For every victory, another wave crashed against the human lines. The sky rained embers, and the earth split with the force of ancient spells.
Lira's voice rang out above the din. "Hold the line! For Morgrave! For the world!"
Vaessara's rebels clashed with Azhakar's loyalists, demon against demon, the air thick with betrayal and hope. Kharos fell beside Vaessara, buying her a path to the heart of the storm.
Kael pressed forward, drawn inexorably toward the throne of flame. The world narrowed to a tunnel of fire and blood. At last, he stood before Azhakar.
The Demon King rose, towering and terrible, his eyes burning with the promise of oblivion.
"My son," Azhakar intoned, voice echoing across the battlefield. "You are the key. Join me, and we will remake this world—no more war, no more weakness. Only power."
Kael's hands shook. He saw his mother's face, Lira's trust, Vaessara's hope. He saw the faces of the fallen, human and demon alike.
"I am not your weapon," Kael said, voice steady. "I am not your heir."
Azhakar's laughter was thunder. "You cannot deny your blood. The gate will open, and all will burn."
Kael felt the fire within him surge, threatening to consume him. He looked to Vaessara, who stood at his side, her hand outstretched.
"You have a choice," she whispered. "You always have."
The prophecy echoed in Kael's mind:
Blood to seal, blood to break. Creation or oblivion.
He raised his sword, the runes blazing with light. "I choose both worlds. I choose hope."
Azhakar roared, unleashing a torrent of flame. Kael met it with his own power, the clash shaking the heavens. For a moment, the world hung in balance—creation and destruction, father and son, past and future.
With a cry, Kael drove his blade into the earth. The fire exploded outward, not in ruin, but in light. The gate shuddered, the magic binding it reforged by Kael's will—his blood, his choice.
Azhakar screamed as the power turned against him, the flames consuming his form. The Demon King fell, his throne crumbling to ash.
The battlefield fell silent. The sky cleared, the embers fading. The war was over.
Kael collapsed to his knees, exhausted but alive. Lira and Vaessara knelt beside him, their hands steadying him.
"You did it," Lira whispered.
Kael looked at the horizon, where dawn broke over a world forever changed. "No. We did."