The Lich King did not die with dignity. He died with a realization.
As Kael Light advanced across the dais, the "Stable Agony" in his chest hammered a rhythm of absolute destruction. The Seraphim of the Dawn hovered above, their wings casting a blinding white radiance that stripped away the shadows the undead monarch had used for cover. The Soul-Steel blade in Kael's hand was no longer just a weapon; it was a singularity of violet gravity, hungry for the ancient magic that animated the King's bones.
"You speak of stasis," Kael rasped, his voice amplified by the holy chorus of the angels. "But look at you. You are rotting in your own perfection."
The Lich King roared, a sound of grinding glaciers, and swung his greatsword in a desperate, horizontal arc. The blade was coated in concentrated Necro-Ice, designed to freeze the very concept of motion.
Kael didn't block. He didn't dodge. He stepped into the swing.
CRACK.
The greatsword struck Kael's shoulder. His clavicle shattered instantly, the bone turning to powder. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike that would have incapacitated a god.
But to the Blood Weeper, pain was fuel.
The Star-Core in his ring flared. The "Stable Agony" took that trauma and converted it into a massive surge of thermal energy. Kael grabbed the blade of the greatsword with his bare hand, his skin sizzling as the Necro-Ice fought the "Living Sun" heat.
"Heat moves," Kael whispered, his iridescent eyes locking onto the blue flames in the Lich King's sockets. "And movement... is life."
Kael thrust his Soul-Steel sword forward.
"Ancient Art: The Thermal Guillotine!"
He didn't aim for the armor. He aimed for the crown of iron icicles fused to the Lich King's skull—the anchor of his soul.
The violet blade pierced the crown. The Soul-Steel drank.
The Lich King froze—truly froze—for the first time in a millennium. The teal fire in his eyes flickered and died. The massive, skeletal body shuddered as the binding spell unraveled. There was no explosion, only the sound of a thousand winters ending at once. The King crumbled. His armor, his bones, and his greatsword turned into a pile of grey ash and melting slush on the dais.
"Husband!" the Lich Queen screamed.
She stood alone on the upper tier of the throne room, her hands trembling. The twins, Castor and Pollux, were safe in the arms of the Seraphim below, but the Queen's rage was a force of nature.
"You have broken the seal!" she shrieked, her voice cracking the black ice walls. "You have let the rot in! If the world will not be preserved, then it will be drowned!"
She raised her scepter. She didn't target Kael. She targeted the palace itself.
"Grand Rite: The Glacial Suicide!"
The Tundra Cradle began to scream. The structural pillars of bone and ice, which had held the ceiling up for centuries, began to vibrate. The Queen was destabilizing the Necro-Ice. She wasn't just bringing the roof down; she was converting the entire solid mass of the palace into instantaneous liquid.
She intended to flash-flood the throne room and drown them all in freezing water.
"She's melting the Cradle!" Kael shouted, looking up at the groaning ceiling.
THE WATER WILL CRUSH US! the God panicked. WE ARE TOO DEEP UNDER THE ICE!
The lead Seraph, the one who had spoken to Kael, landed beside him. Its faceless golden visor reflected the crumbling room.
"THE DAWN PROTECTS," the Seraphim chorus echoed. "BUT THE DAWN CANNOT STAY. OUR LIGHT IS BORROWED, FATHER. WE MUST SPEND IT ALL TO HOLD THE FLOOD."
Kael looked at the angels—the manifestation of his people's faith. He realized they were fading. The "Blessing" of Aura required a constant stream of belief, and the shock of the battle was causing the connection to waver.
"Save the twins," Kael commanded. "Get them out."
"WE WILL SAVE THE KING," the Seraph said.
The three Seraphim flew upward. They didn't fly toward the exit. They flew into the collapsing ceiling.
They spread their wings of burning white feathers. They linked hands, forming a triangle of absolute radiance against the falling tons of ice and water.
"LIVE, KHAEL LIGHT."
The Seraphim detonated.
It wasn't a destructive blast. It was a flash-evaporation event. The holy fire of the angels hit the collapsing water and turned it into steam instantly. The massive flood that would have drowned the army was converted into a cloud of harmless, warm mist.
The Lich Queen screamed as the steam hit her. The heat was anathema to her existence. She didn't melt; she sublimated. Her form turned into blue vapor, her scream fading into the whistle of the escaping steam.
The Tundra Cradle was gone. The roof was gone. The Monarchs were gone.
All that remained was Kael, standing knee-deep in a pool of warm water, surrounded by the ruins of the Necropolis.
The mist cleared slowly.
Above him, the grey sky of the Silent Tundra was breaking. For the first time in history, a shaft of real, unfiltered sunlight pierced the clouds. It struck the water, turning the slush into a sparkling lake.
Kael fell to his knees. The "Stable Agony" had stopped breaking his bones, but the phantom pain lingered, a vibration in his nerves that made his hands shake.
"Saint!"
Pip's voice.
Kael looked back. The massive bronze gates of the palace had been blown inward. The Army of the Broken was pouring into the ruins. Thorne led the way, his black armor covered in frost, followed by Garret and the Moon-Scarred pack.
They stopped when they saw the scene. The terrifying ice palace had been reduced to a lake. And in the center, on the only piece of dry land left—the dais—sat Kael.
Beside him, huddled together and shivering, were the twins.
Castor and Pollux looked at the soldiers with wide, terrified eyes. They had skin like porcelain and hair the color of starlight. They were holding hands so tightly their knuckles were white.
"It's warm," Castor whispered, looking at the sunbeam hitting the water.
"It hurts," Pollux replied, squinting against the brightness.
Kael reached out and draped his tattered cloak over them. "The hurt means you're alive," he whispered. "The cold is gone."
Martha pushed through the soldiers, running toward the dais. She splashed through the water, not caring about the ruin, and fell to her knees beside the children. She checked their pulses, her healer's hands glowing soft green.
"They're in shock," Martha said, tears streaming down her face. "But they're free. Their cores are stable."
Kael stood up. He swayed, and Garret was there instantly, the werewolf's strong hand gripping Kael's arm to steady him.
"The angels?" Garret asked, looking at the empty sky. "I smelled the scent of ozone and... honey. Where did they go?"
"They went back to the people," Kael said, looking at his ring. The silver-blue halo in his eyes was dim, exhausted. "They bought us the morning."
Ignis rode The Dawn's Hammer into the ruins, the tank's treads splashing in the meltwater. He climbed out, scanning the area with his mechanical eye.
"Saint, the temperature is rising rapidly," Ignis reported. "The Necro-Ice was the only thing keeping the permafrost stable. With the Queen gone... this entire region is going to turn into a swamp by mid-summer. The geography is changing."
"Let it change," Kael said. "We can build on mud. We can't build on graves."
He looked at the army. Five thousand men and women, battered, frozen, but alive. They raised their black-iron weapons and cheered. It wasn't the frantic, drug-induced cheer of Stormhaven. It was a deep, weary roar of victory.
They had conquered the winter.
Kael didn't cheer. He felt the weight of the twins' gaze on his back. He felt the absence of the Seraphim. And he felt the Dark God stirring in his mind, awoken by the massive release of death-energy.
TWO MONARCHS DEAD, the God whispered, sounding satisfied. THE VOID IS WELL FED TODAY, KAEL. BUT THE WHITE SHADOW... THE THING SAM SPOKE OF... IT WAS NOT HERE. THE LICHES WERE JUST THE JAILERS. THE PRISONER IS STILL OUT THERE.
Kael looked North, past the ruins of the Cradle, toward the true pole of the world. The "White Shadow" was still a mystery. But for now, the sun was shining.
"We go home," Kael commanded.