The battlefield was quiet now.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, rain still falling—soaking bodies, washing blood into the earth, turning the mud into red puddles.
Death had no music.
Only silence.
And in that silence, Kael stood—his blade dragging behind him, carving a line through the dead.
One last mage stood trembling before him.
Kael didn't hesitate.
Steel flashed.
The head fell.
It was done.
Across the ruined field, Veyran knelt—mud-covered, shivering, half-dead.
He couldn't feel his limbs anymore.
Could barely breathe.
Kael turned to face him—mask still on, robes untouched by blood, unhurried.
Veyran's voice cracked through the storm.
He didn't know if it was rain on his cheeks… or tears.
"Why…?"
His voice broke.
"Why did you do this to me?! What did I do wrong?!"
Kael stepped closer.
He crouched slightly—just enough to look Veyran in the eyes.
His voice was soft.
Deadly.
"You came in my way."
Veyran stared.
Then… laughed.
A broken, choking sound.
