The sky above the Hells cracked in seven places. Lightning made of shadow and memory split the void, raining silence upon the burning earth. The throne of Obsidian stood tall at the heart of the ruins — the seat of power reclaimed by Shadow, no longer heir to anything but the storm itself.
He stood alone. Not because there was no one left. But because none dared step too close to a king reborn through fire and void.
And yet, one by one… they came.
Sa'Karrah was the first. The Queen of Rage, war-blessed and flame-bound, her skin still glowing with the afterburn of battle. She knelt beside him without a word, placing her twin blades into the ground. Not in surrender — but in allegiance.
"I will be your fury, if you'll be our balance," she whispered.
Shadow didn't answer. He didn't have to.
From the northern wind, carried on wings of bone and sorrow, came Korr — once brother, once betrayer, now burdened with redemption carved into his flesh. He bore the broken horn of their fallen father, Black, around his neck. His voice trembled as he spoke.
"Forgive me. Or don't. But I will still stand here."
Shadow reached out. Clasped his hand.
"Then stand."
A low chuckle echoed across the throne hall. Shadows twisted, and from the glass-like floor emerged Velren — the Third of the Nine, known as the Laughing Silence. Childlike in shape, monstrous in essence. His grin carved the air.
"I've missed moments like these," he purred. "Where all the chess pieces forget they're made of bone and blood."
He bowed with mock elegance.
"Your madness bows to your storm, my king."
The ground trembled.
A howl tore through the darkness — primal, pure. From it emerged Black, or rather, what remained of the once-king. His ghost, armor fractured by time, carried not weight but warning. He stood beside his sons, eyes hollow, voice echoing from beyond.
"You have done what I could not."
Shadow turned. For the first time, there was pain in his expression.
"You tried. That's more than most."
Behind them all, a gentle light.
And there she was.
Saphira.
Or what lingered of her. A figure of silver flame, eyes of stardust, the shard of the amulet glowing at her chest. She said nothing. She simply stepped close, and placed her hand on Shadow's heart.
"Still beating," she smiled. "Even now."
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
Then came the last.
From the pit of the earth — from the prison of torn reality where he had once been slain — rose a presence.
Shädow.
No longer whole. No longer defiant. A wraith formed of what he once was. Hatred thinned by defeat. Rage diluted by fear. He hovered before the throne, watching the gathering with eyes that no longer held power.
"You should have killed me," he hissed.
Shadow stepped down from the throne. Looked him in the eye.
"I did."
With that, Shädow faded — not into nothing, but into silence.
The circle was complete.
Old enemies. Lost friends. Former betrayers. Broken gods. The forsaken and the redeemed. All knelt now before the one who had stood when the world demanded he fall.
Shadow raised his sword — no longer the Demon Blade, no longer bound to fate.
A new weapon, forged from choice. From identity.
From himself.
"I am not your god," he said, voice calm, low, unshakable.
"I am not your savior."
"I am what remains."
And all who stood before him — demons, ghosts, fire-born warriors, and fragments of fallen stars — bowed their heads.
Not out of fear.
But because they knew:
A new war would come.
A greater shadow would rise.
And only one name would be whispered in its wake.
Shadow.
The one who became more than a king.
The one who became the storm.