Silence settled like ash across the obsidian keep. No flames flickered. No souls whispered. The deep halls did not echo with war cries—they waited.
Shadow sat atop his fractured throne. He had been there since The Saint's departure, unmoving, silent. The air was thick with expectation. Even demons who dared remain kept their distance.
Alone, he touched the broken edges of the seat beneath him.
He felt… nothing.
No triumph. No anger. All emotion had burned away long ago—leaving only memory and intent.
Then, footsteps.
Soft. Steady. Divine in their absence.
The Saint stepped into the hall.
Not armored—or armed. No sword in hand. No halo. Just a tall, silent figure, face neutral, pale light dancing across his still expression.
They both sat in thi s emptiness.
Shadow inclined his head.
"You came."
The Saint glided closer.
"I came for purpose," he whispered.
"Not for battle."
Shadow's eyes flickered.
"You chose," he murmured.
"You chose to live, to wander… why?"
The Saint paused.
He knelt before the throne.
"To watch. To learn. To question what they created me for."
Shadow—curiosity reaching behind the void of his eyes—leaning forward:
"What do you see?"
The Saint's voice was measured, controlled.
"I see no color—but I feel your will.
I feel your restraint… and the pain it weighs.
It was forged in lack."
Shadow closed his eyes.
"And you? Were you forged without lack?"
"I was forged to end you," the Saint said.
"To bring balance. But I… felt nothing in the act.
So I wondered—what is balance if not felt?"
Nothingness.
Shadow pointed to the fractured throne.
"This seat—broken.
This domain—dead.
What is there to end?"
The Saint stood, stepping forward.
His voice gentler.
"Not all that should end has ended.
This world… punishes those who seek control over it.
But we are more than broken forms."
Shadow studied him.
"You believe in purpose."
The Saint nodded.
"I believed in command."
But I have no masters now.
I only have choice."
Choice. The word hit deep, wider than any blade.
Shadow rose.
"You were a weapon.
What happens if the world decides you are the enemy?"
The Saint turned, meeting that void.
"Then I'll decide again."
Shadow paused. He took a step forward—closing the distance.
"That—is what I once sought.
To be free.
Not a king—even power died in me.
Now only truth remains."
The Saint's eyes held his.
"And what truth?"
Shadow stood tall but tired.
"That power without purpose is poison.
And purpose without freedom is prison."
The Saint absorbed that.
"Then… we are not enemies."
A declaration, simple as ash.
Shadow inclined his head once more.
"We are… witnesses."
A moment passed.
Distant thunder rolled.
The obsidian throne cracked further under them—silent, inevitable.
The Saint stepped down.
"I will walk the worlds again," he said.
"Perhaps," Shadow replied,
"I will, too."
The Saint paused.
"If I find power without purpose…"
He turned.
"…will you be there?"
Shadow watched him leave.
He did not answer.
But he would.
The throne room remained silent—yet now, it spoke volumes: two beings formed by war, forged in opposite flames, coexisting at the crossroads of fate.
Shadow returned to the seat.
He pressed his hand to the ancient stone.
"Not a king. Not a god.
A witness," he whispered.
And in the hush, the world trembled.