The wind that curled around the blackened spires of Dravemire carried the smell of iron and smoke. Below, in the city's maze of broken streets, the last pockets of resistance fought like cornered wolves. Altharion moved silently along the rooftops, each step measured, each breath a controlled thread of calm. The hunt was nearly over.
From his vantage, he saw the flicker of torchlight—enemy scouts, weaving between the ruins. They were looking for a way out, but the gates had already fallen. The encirclement was complete. He raised his hand, and the shadow around him seemed to thicken, forming a second skin.
A single leap carried him to a balcony where two soldiers whispered in desperation. They didn't see him until it was far too late. His blade sang once, swift and cold, and their bodies collapsed without a sound.
"Your fear is loud," he murmured, stepping over them. "And it draws me to you."
The streets below erupted with the clash of steel. The main assault had begun. Altharion descended into the chaos, moving like a phantom between the flames. Each strike he delivered was decisive—no wasted motion, no flourish. The battle was not about glory; it was about ending it before more blood soaked the stones.
But amidst the fighting, his mind was elsewhere. The deeper he pushed into Dravemire, the stronger the pull became—an oppressive presence that seemed to seep into his bones. He knew the source. The Obsidian Crown. The artifact that had poisoned the city's rulers and sparked the rebellion. It called to him now, whispering in a tongue older than the wind.
He turned a corner and found himself face-to-face with a squad of the Black Guard. Unlike the panicked soldiers before, these were disciplined, their armor etched with runes of resistance. They formed a wall of shields, their commander barking orders.
"Hold him! The Crown will not be his!"
Altharion drew both blades, their edges catching the firelight. "Then it will be your grave."
The clash was brutal. Sparks leapt as steel met steel, the air ringing with each blow. The Guard fought with precision, but Altharion was faster—sliding through gaps, breaking formations, cutting through runes meant to weaken him. By the time their commander realized the mistake, half his men were already down.
A final thrust shattered the last shield, sending the commander sprawling. Altharion stepped over him, eyes locked on the looming citadel ahead. Its gates stood open, as if inviting him in.
Inside, the corridors were silent. Not the silence of emptiness, but of watching. He felt the shadows bending, drawn toward the Crown's power. The throne room was ahead, and on the seat of black stone lay the artifact itself—a circlet carved from a single shard of obsidian, pulsing with a faint inner light.
The moment he stepped forward, the temperature dropped. Darkness pooled at his feet, curling like smoke. A voice, low and resonant, filled the chamber.
"I have waited for you, blade-bearer."
Altharion's grip tightened. "I didn't come to serve you."
"You came because you cannot resist me."
The whisper seemed to bypass his ears and sink directly into his mind. Memories flickered—battles fought, comrades lost, the endless march toward an unseen destiny. The Crown's power promised an end to it all. Control. Peace through dominance.
For a heartbeat, the thought tempted him. Then, with a snarl, he stepped forward. "I decide my fate."
His hand closed around the Crown. Shadows exploded outward, swirling like a storm, the chamber groaning under the weight of its unleashed power. Somewhere deep inside, something fought back—his will against the artifact's hunger.
The battle for Dravemire was over. The battle for himself had just begun.