There are some words that are not spoken.
They are not whispered.
They are forged in the fires of agony and the blood of the heart.
And they burn themselves into your soul for all eternity.
The world went silent.
The chaos of the battle, the screams of the dying, the clash of steel, the roar of magic—it all faded into a dull, distant hum, like the buzzing of a fly in another room.
There was only the sight of the knight's sword, a dark, brutal line of steel, buried to the hilt in his mother's chest. A violation of all that was good and pure in the world.
The gentle, green light of her healing magic, once so vibrant and full of life, flickered like a dying candle in a harsh wind.
It sputtered.
And then it went out.
Elara looked down at the blade protruding from her own body, a look of pure, childlike surprise on her face. As if she could not comprehend the cold, hard reality of what had just happened.
Then her eyes lifted.
They did not look at her killer. They did not look at her fallen husband.
They found Adrian, standing frozen in the doorway, a small, helpless statue in a world of horror.
Her lips formed his name, a silent, final prayer, a mother's last apology.
And then the light left her eyes, a light that had held galaxies of love, and she fell, a broken doll of white and red, into the blood-soaked snow.
A sound tore from Kazimir Volkov's throat.
It was not a sound of pain. Pain was an old friend. It was not a sound of rage. Rage was a tool.
This was the sound of a universe being ripped in half.
It was the howl of a wolf who has just watched its mate be torn apart. The roar of a god who has just witnessed the death of his world. A sound of absolute, soul-shattering loss.
The sound did not just echo through the valley. It struck it like a physical blow. The remaining knights flinched, stumbling back, their hands flying to their ears. The very air seemed to shimmer and distort.
The purple chains of Valerius's magic, which had held the Ashen Wolf fast, vibrated violently.
Cracks of brilliant white light, like fissures in reality, appeared along their length.
Grandmaster Valerius, his face a mask of smug, arrogant victory just a moment before, now stared in utter disbelief. A flicker of something he had not felt in decades—true, mortal fear—touched his eyes.
"Impossible," he whispered, his voice thin and reedy. "No man can break the Chains of Dominion with grief alone."
The chains did not just break.
They exploded.
They shattered into a million shards of amethyst light, a beautiful, terrible firework display of pure, unrestrained agony.
For a single, glorious, terrifying second, Kazimir Volkov was free.
He rose to his feet. He was no longer a man. He was vengeance given form. He was an embodiment of loss.
He did not look at the knights around him. They were insects, beneath his notice.
His eyes, burning with a fire hotter than any forge, a fire fueled by the wreckage of his heart, locked onto Grandmaster Valerius.
And in those eyes, Valerius saw his own death.
He saw a death of unimaginable pain, of endless suffering. A death that would be begged for, but never, ever granted.
But it was too late.
The moment of freedom, born from his agony, was just a cruel, fleeting trick of fate.
The other knights, their shock broken by the instinct to survive, saw their chance.
Their trapped, wounded god was on his feet, but his focus was absolute, a spear of hatred aimed directly at their Grandmaster.
They swarmed him.
It was not a battle. It was not a duel.
It was a butchering.
A sword, wielded by a knight whose face Adrian would never know, hacked into the gap in Kazimir's armor at the shoulder, where the mage's fire had weakened it.
Another found the back of his knee, severing tendons and muscle, a cowardly, crippling blow.
A third plunged into his side, finding purchase between his ribs.
He did not cry out. He did not even seem to notice the blows that would have felled a lesser man a dozen times over.
His eyes, burning with his final, unfulfilled promise of vengeance, remained locked on Valerius.
His body, however, was failing him.
His strength, which had seemed as limitless as the mountains, was pouring out of him, staining the white snow a deeper and deeper crimson.
He took a staggering step toward Valerius.
Then another.
His leg, the one that had been struck from behind, gave out.
He fell.
He landed hard on one knee, his body a testament to a dozen fatal wounds.
The greatsword, his lifelong companion, the extension of his will, fell from his numb fingers.
It clattered onto the blood-slick stones with a sound of shocking finality. The sound of defeat.
The knights backed away, their work done. They stood panting in the frigid air, their swords dripping, watching the legend die.
But the legend was not looking at them.
His head lifted, a slow, agonizingly painful movement.
His eyes, their burning fire now fading into a soft, gray ember, searched through the swirling snow, through the carnage, through the gathering darkness.
They passed over his killers without seeing them. They passed over the smirking, victorious face of Valerius as if he were nothing.
They found Adrian.
They found him, still frozen in the doorway, a small, silent statue in a world of horror.
He was a boy watching his entire world burn down around him.
Across the field of death, their gazes locked.
And in his father's eyes, Adrian did not see pain. He did not see anger. He did not see defeat.
He saw only love. A love so vast, so powerful, it seemed to push back the darkness for one final moment.
He saw regret. And in that regret, he saw an apology.
I am sorry, my son. I failed. I could not protect you from this world. I could not protect you from my own past.
Kazimir saw the terror in his son's eyes. He saw the shock. He saw the exact moment his son's soul shattered.
He knew what that shattering meant. He knew the path it would set his son upon.
The path of the wolf. The path of blood and vengeance. His path.
And with the very last of his strength, the last drop of his will, the Ashen Wolf gave his son one final, desperate command.
A command that was not a choice.
It was a burden. A purpose. A father's final, desperate attempt to save his child from the poison of his own legacy.
"Adrian," he rasped, his voice a torrent of blood and love.
He took one last, shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving his son's.
And he spoke the word that would become both Adrian's curse and his creed. The word that would define the rest of his life.
"Live."
Then the last of his strength was gone. He fell forward, his face landing in the red snow, and was still.
The Ashen Wolf was dead.
And something inside Adrian, the small, laughing boy who loved his mother's songs and his father's stories, died with him.
The world of color and sound dissolved into a gray, silent haze of shock.
The only thing that remained was that one, single word, echoing in the hollow, empty space where his heart used to be.
Live.
Elara screamed. A sound of pure, soul-shattering despair.
She let go of Adrian.
"NO!"
She ran out into the snow, into the heart of the battle, her hands glowing with the soft, green light of her healing magic.
She ran toward her husband, a dove flying into a pack of wolves.
"Leave him alone!" she cried, her voice a plea and a command.
Valerius merely glanced at her, a look of bored contempt on his face.
"The beast's pet. How quaint."
He made a small, dismissive flicking motion with his fingers.
One of the knights, freed from Kazimir's onslaught, turned.
He raised his sword.
And drove it through Elara's chest.
The world went silent.