The silence that followed was unnatural.
No steel clashing. No thunder rumbling. No cries of war or triumph. Only the whisper of wind across blood-soaked fields, and the sound of rain striking ash.
Lyra stood at the heart of it all — alone, knees in the mud where Kael had vanished into light.
The runes from his sealing still glowed faintly in the earth, like dying embers refusing to go cold. The Crown of Thorns lay beside her, cracked and quiet, its once-malevolent power utterly stilled.
Her trembling fingers reached for it. She stopped short.
And then—she screamed.
A sound that tore from her soul. A sound that had nothing left to protect.
It wasn't a battle cry or a royal declaration. It was grief. Pure, raw, and agonizing.
The scream echoed across the battlefield like a shattering bell, rippling through the bloodied soldiers, through the shattered remains of catapults and siege towers, across the corpses of allies and enemies alike.
The Thorns heard it.
Valdran dropped to one knee, hand to his heart, head bowed. The massive warrior said nothing. There were no words that could honor what had been lost.
Luna and Eclipse stood in silence, their silver hair matted to their faces. Eclipse turned his head skyward. Luna reached for her brother's hand, and for once, he didn't pull away.
Nereza collapsed beside the body of her wyvern, her cursed storms finally fading. For the first time in centuries, the sky above her stilled.
Across the plains, soldiers of both armies fell to their knees. The war was over. But no victory bloomed in that moment. Only mourning.
The Dreadhold was still standing. But its king was gone.
Lyra remained where she was, curled in the place where Kael had sealed himself. Her body shook. Her silver armor was cracked. Her hands were covered in his blood.
Valdran approached slowly.
"He… chose it," the warrior said quietly. "He chose to be remembered like this. Not as a tyrant. Not as a monster. But as a man who protected what he loved."
Lyra didn't answer. She stared at the seal's remnants. Her tears had stopped — only because there were none left to fall.
Behind them, the Thorns gathered. One by one. Wounded, bloodied, changed forever.
"Dreadhold needs you now," whispered Nereza. "Kael entrusted it to you."
"No," Lyra said, her voice hoarse. "He didn't entrust it to me... He entrusted it to us."
She looked up, eyes filled with a pain that would never fully fade. "All of us. We carry his legacy. Together."
That night, they held no celebration.
No songs were sung. No fires were lit. The people of Dreadhold walked the ruined halls in reverent silence.
A monument was built where Kael had vanished — a black stone obelisk crowned in thorns, inscribed with a single line:
"To the King who chose to fall… so others could rise."
Lyra sat before it long after the others had gone. Her hands rested on her knees. The wind stirred her hair.
A soft sound touched her ears.
Like a voice.
"Live… for both of us now."
Her breath caught. She turned — but no one stood behind her.
And yet the Crown of Thorns, resting at the base of the obelisk, pulsed faintly. Just once. Then went still again.
She smiled through her tears.
"I will."