They called him Elandar.
But that name had long burned away.
Now, the people simply whispered "the Chained Prophet."
Not because he was bound — but because he had chained himself.
To silence.
To power.
To prophecy.
He had emerged from the Ash-Wastes a decade ago, wrapped in lightless steel, with eyes like extinguished stars. No army. No nation. Only truth.
And the truth was this:
Shadow must fall.
Elandar walked barefoot across scorched lands. The holy armor dragged behind him like broken wings. He did not eat. He did not speak.
He dreamed.
And the dreams showed him the shape of fire. Of thrones. Of betrayals old and new.
He saw what Shadow had become.
But he also saw something Shadow could become.
And that frightened him more.
In the mountains of Valt, the old Orders of Light gathered.
"He must reach the Gates of Hell before the Solstice," said one archon.
Another hissed. "And if he fails?"
"Then the world breaks. Again."
They gave him weapons forged from starlight. Words stolen from angels. A dagger carved from the tooth of the first demon.
But Elandar said nothing.
He simply nodded, and walked into the storm.
Meanwhile, in Ash'Var, the skies had begun bleeding gold.
Shadow felt it in his bones — a presence that didn't belong.
He stood in the chamber of flame, his eyes closed.
And he remembered.
Not just the pain. Not the thrones or betrayals.
He remembered being human.
And something inside him whispered, "This is not over."
Alaris found him there. Alone. Quiet.
"They've sent him," he said. "The Prophet. He walks like a ghost."
Shadow opened his eyes. "He'll bleed like a man."
The day they met was neither storm nor silence.
It was balance.
Two truths clashing.
Two gods unmade.
Shadow stood atop the Broken Pillar, waiting.
Elandar approached slowly — his chains dragging sparks across the stone.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Elandar whispered:
"You were meant to burn."
Shadow answered, calmly:
"I already did."
The battle did not begin with swords.
It began with memories.
Elandar spoke in echoes of Shadow's past.
He showed him the sister that died screaming.
The friends who betrayed him.
The moment when humanity begged — and Shadow turned away.
Shadow did not flinch.
Instead, he stepped forward and whispered:
"I am what comes after mercy."
And then the sky tore open.
Steel met fire.
Light met dark.
Two forces beyond time, slashing across eternity.
The mountains wept. Rivers turned to smoke. The air cracked like glass.
But in the end… only one remained standing.
Shadow.
Barely.
Wounded. Breathing. Eyes burning.
And at his feet: the broken chains.
The Prophet had fallen.
Shadow did not speak.
He simply picked up the dagger the Prophet had carried.
He looked at the horizon.
And he understood.
They would never stop.
Not the angels.
Not the kings.
Not even the dead.
They would always come.
So he would wait.
And the throne would burn — until the world learned.