The battlefield had lost all its rhythm. The music of war—the clashing of swords and the rhythmic beat of war drums—was completely swallowed by a heavy, suffocating silence that fell over the central ridge.
Prince Azeal cut through the last remaining line of Xeraphyn shield-bearers, his Star Fire Sword burning a low, flickering blue. His eyes swept across the muddy expanse, searching for the golden banner of King Aetheron. When he finally located the royal crest, it was lying face down in the dirt, trampled by retreating boots.
His breath caught in his throat.
Azeal ran forward, his heavy boots splashing through shallow pools of crimson water. When he reached the clearing beneath the shattered ivory archway, his knees nearly gave out. There, lying side by side, were King Aetheron and Lord Kaelor Draven.
The dark magic of Zhalver had done its terrible work. But they did not leave behind cold, rotting corpses. As was the sacred, ancient law of the Drazhin race, death was not an end, but a return to the stars. The flesh of the fallen rulers was already fracturing into thousands of glowing, silver-blue embers. Slowly, beautifully, and tragically, their physical forms were dissolving into thick ribbons of luminous smoke, rising gracefully into the dark, stormy sky, leaving behind only their empty, heavy armor.
"No..." Azeal whispered, his voice cracking as he reached out, his hand passing through the rising silver vapor that had once been his mentor and his king. "No! Father! Your Majesty!"
A raw, beast-like roar of pure heartbreak tore from Azeal's chest. The embers danced around his face as if offering a final, silent blessing. Azeal looked up through the rising smoke, his tear-filled eyes locking onto the tall, dark silhouette standing at the top of the ridge.
Draeven Zareth stood there, wiping his own blood from his chin, holding his jagged staff with a sickening, triumphant grin. He was watching the souls of his greatest rivals float away into nothingness.
Every ounce of control, every lesson of patience Azeal had ever learned, evaporated into pure, unadulterated rage. The Star Fire Sword in his hand reacted to his fury, its blue flames exploding outward into a towering vortex of celestial fire that scorched the mud around him.
"DRAEVEN!" Azeal screamed, his voice vibrating with a terrifying power.
Without waiting for the vanguard, without a single thought for his own survival, Azeal sprinted up the rocky hill. He moved like a localized hurricane, his blade cutting down any Zhalver guard foolish enough to stand in his path. He was a force of pure vengeance, running directly toward the man who had stolen the only family he had ever known.