The sky over the scorched lands of Vael-Kar was cracked glass, veined with silver lightning and the memory of war. Shadow stood on a ridge, his cloak drifting in the sulphuric winds. Beneath him, the ruins of an ancient battlefield—the same place where the heavens had once touched the earth in flames.
He breathed deeply.
But breath meant little when your lungs remembered fire.
Behind him, remnants of the Nine were just echoes now—Kara, Malrik, the War-Demons—all dust.
Shadow had no court. No army.
Only vision.
He turned his gaze eastward.
The fractured lands of mortals—still divided by fear.
And above them: light.
Not holy, not divine… but organized.
Watching.
Waiting.
The Saint walked alone through the Temple of Memory, where the light once ruled. Its golden halls had dimmed, and its sentinels—once glorious, radiant entities—now hid behind law and scripture. They whispered as he passed, unsure whether to revere him or fear him.
He wasn't one of them anymore.
He was something else.
And as he knelt before the statue of the First Flame, he whispered:
"He waits. In shadow, yes.
But not to destroy. To rebuild."
The Lightkeepers would never accept that.
They wanted him to return with a sword.
Instead, he returned with doubt.
In the underhalls of Obsidian Keep, Shadow gathered the broken relics of ancient wars. Soulblades. Seals. Chains once used to bind gods.
They were silent now.
Shadow stared at them.
"You served tyrants.
You broke kingdoms.
But not again."
He shattered one between his fingers.
Not as destruction.
As declaration.
At the Council of Ar'Kyel, where the five realms met under treaty fire, The Saint stood before kings and high priests.
He spoke no name, only truths.
"You fear the dark because it sees you clearly."
"You fear him… because he no longer needs your approval."
"But what he offers—is not hell. It's judgment.
And mercy, if you deserve it."
Silence.
Then fire.
One priest stood, sword drawn.
"He is corruption," the priest hissed.
"And you are its prophet."
The Saint did not flinch.
He only answered:
"Then let him speak for himself."
The two met again in the Ruins of Aethros, where flame and shadow once danced.
The Saint brought word of unrest.
Shadow already knew.
"They will come for you," The Saint said.
Shadow nodded.
"Let them."
"I will not hide behind gods or walls."
"If war comes again—it will be the last."
The Saint hesitated.
"What if they send… another Chosen?"
Shadow's eyes dimmed.
He looked toward the horizon.
"Then the stars will bear witness to his funeral."
In the twilight, Shadow stood upon the broken balcony of his citadel, facing a world that had not yet healed—and perhaps never would.
Behind him, demonic whispers stirred. Some loyal. Others… not.
He raised his hand. Fire and shadow coiled around his fingers like ancient serpents.
Below him, the chasm of hell shifted. It no longer screamed.
It listened.
He sat.
Not slumped.
Not broken.
But firm—unmoving.
A silhouette against the burning horizon.
And with a voice that shattered every lie across heaven and earth, he said:
"I am not your villain."
"I am not your king."
"I am what remains."
The throne of ash accepted him once more.
And in the silence, even the stars dared not judge.