The Citadel of Valor lit up with a violent pulse the moment he stepped foot inside.
Acolytes in gold-threaded robes. Then silver-armored Justicars. Then the sons of Valor.
Aerion's realm had always worn the mask of honor. Towering marble spires rose toward the heavens, etched with oaths of justice and peace. Banners of gold and crimson snapped proudly in the wind, each inscribed with sacred words like truth, duty, and glory.
But beneath the shining surface lay something darker.
The streets were too clean. The silence too practiced. Soldiers in silver armor patrolled with mechanical precision, their faces blank, their hands never far from their weapons. This was a realm that spoke of peace while sharpening its blades. Justice carved in steel. Order enforced by fear.
The Citadel was not a sanctuary.
It was a fortress.
Magic exploded outward like a divine bomb, cracking stone, warping metal, and sending statues of Aerion flying in every direction. The banners of justice caught fire mid-air. Gold thread melted into ash. The ground itself screamed beneath Malvor's boots as chaos poisoned every holy ward in the stone.
Acolytes rushed forward, their robes pristine, gold-threaded prayers spilling from their lips in panicked unison.
"Stop!" one commanded. "You cannot enter—"
Malvor snapped his fingers.
The monk folded inward like paper in a storm, bones collapsing into himself, disappearing in a splatter of blood and divine light. Screams erupted.
A dozen more charged, warriors of honor, sons of Valor, wielding blades etched with justice and divine edict.
They were dead before they knew they had made a mistake.
Malvor's chaos swallowed them.
One warrior liquefied into black tar mid-stride, armor sizzling as it sank into his dissolving bones. Another shrieked as his own armor fused to his skin, glowing red hot before his form collapsed. A third was lifted into the air, his body contorting, stretched until he snapped apart like wet rope.
One begged for mercy.
Malvor laughed and turned him inside out.
He stalked through the courtyard, not walking around bodies, but through them. Shattered bone, blood, and holy parchment clung to his boots. The floor cracked beneath him with each step. Aerion's name, once carved into every stone, began to bleed, the letters warping under the weight of divine blasphemy.
Arrows rained down from the walls.
Malvor caught them midair with a flick of his wrist, froze them in place, and turned them into jagged, sparkling shards of glass, then hurled them back like a storm of divine glitter. They sliced through armor like silk.
Blood sprayed the white walls. Screams echoed across the citadel. Prayers to Aerion became panicked sobs.
"WHERE IS HE?!" Malvor roared.
The sky split. Lightning forked downward as if the heavens themselves flinched.
One senior priest, a man old enough to remember Malvor from another age, stepped forward from the smoke and rubble, holding a broken staff.
He raised his hands. "Malvor, please, this is madness."
"You remember me?" Malvor snarled.
"Yes. You were there, when this temple was raised. You helped protect it once—"
"I did not protect him," Malvor spat, voice sharp as broken glass. "I tolerated him."
The priest's lips trembled. "Please, chaos does not have to destroy what order built. Think. This is not the way—"
Malvor did not let him finish.
With a flick of his fingers, the priest's mouth sealed shut, eyes wide in horror as Malvor stepped forward and placed one hand on his chest.
"Then pray," Malvor whispered, "to whatever power will still listen."
The priest turned to crystal in a blink, screaming in silence. Then shattered into a thousand shards.
Malvor stepped over the pieces.
He blasted through the outer gates, ramming his shoulder into thick bronze. The doors exploded inward like leaves on the wind.
More guards awaited.
More guards died.
Banners were torn down. Altars sundered. Paintings scorched into ash. Scrolls blackened as he walked by.
Aerion's relics cracked and hissed, bleeding golden ichor.
The very temple groaned, the stones warping like it too wanted to flee. Malvor could feel it in his bones—the temple's desperate pulse, its attempt to survive this onslaught. A god's rage, unleashed. The smell of burning sacred relics filled the air, heavy with the stench of divine lies being undone. He stood amid the ruin, breath coming in ragged, frantic bursts. His eyes, once glowing with divine wrath, now dimmed with the weight of realization. He had destroyed everything, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but one thing.
And then, the throne room.
Grand. Glorious.
Empty.
No Aerion.
No Annie.
Just silence.
Malvor stood still for a moment, as if he could still hear the ringing in his ears from the chaos. His heartbeat echoed in his chest, slow, too slow. He had torn everything down. But it had led to nothing. Where was she? Where was the one thing he hadn't been able to protect?*
And in that silence, the anger faltered.