The temple's heart was a ruin.
Once sacred, now soaked in blood and shadow. The marble floor was cracked, its murals scorched. Statues wept from their broken eyes as the final battle unfolded beneath their gaze.
Caelen and Elira stood back to back.
The Weeping Blade flashed with sorrow-fueled light, its edge singing grief. Elira's dagger danced in her hands—fluid, precise, deadly. Together, they fought through the tide of monsters: Hollows, beasts twisted by void, and worse… the fallen.
Once-heroes. Warriors who had stood against Eredan-Mir.
Now puppets of his silence.
Among them, one face stopped Caelen in his tracks.
A woman in dented armor. Tattered cloak. Eyes wide with endless hurt.
"You," she rasped. "You were supposed to save us."
Caelen's breath caught.
He remembered her. A leader. A protector. One he had helped—once.
"I tried," he whispered. "I'm still trying."
Her laughter was jagged glass. "Trying isn't enough. Look at us. Dead. Damned. Because you weren't strong enough."
Her blade moved before her words faded.
Their swords clashed.
Each strike sent shards of her pain into Caelen, the curse pulling every drop of despair into his soul. He didn't want to fight her. He didn't want to kill what was left of her.
But she gave him no choice.
His blade sang one last time.
She dissolved into ash.
Silence followed.
Not peace—never peace.
Just the absence of her.
Around him, others fell. Those who had dared to hope. The gentle. The brave. The kind.
The battlefield devoured them one by one.
Elira's hand found his.
Her eyes blazed with fire.
"Don't let it break you," she said, fierce. "We're still here. We're still fighting."
He nodded, though the flame inside him wavered.
The temple's heart loomed ahead.
But the path was paved in kindness lost.
And Caelen feared it would claim what remained of him next.