Aeron stood at the edge of the rising fortress, staring down into the mist-drowned valley below.
The wind had changed.
It carried the scent of iron—old blood and scorched magic. Somewhere in the distance, beyond crumbling mountains and forests warped by curses, something was stirring.
The fortress around him responded.
Spikes of obsidian grew like black thorns from the walls. Tower stumps rebuilt themselves with eerie silence, bricks sliding into place without mortar. The throne chamber hummed with dark resonance—as if the fortress recognized its queen's return… and her shadow's awakening.
Velzaria stood on the highest balcony, her eyes scanning the distant horizon.
> "Whispersteel Bastion," she said.
Her voice was calm, but beneath it flowed a thread of cold venom.
> "One of the last outer strongholds that once flew my banner. Guarded by a general I trusted. One who, upon my fall… chose to bow to heaven instead of fall beside me."
Aeron frowned. "You mean to take it back?"
Velzaria's gaze narrowed. "No. You will."
He turned sharply. "Alone?"
> "You asked what you were becoming. It is time to find out."
She raised her palm, and from the shadows behind her, a shard of bone and black metal floated forward—shifting and twisting until it formed a mask.
It was a knight's helm, but skeletal in shape—fanged, cold, crowned in shadow.
> "This is the Mask of Null," Velzaria said. "Worn only by the Queen's executioner. In it lies authority. Terror. And the command to kill without hesitation."
Aeron didn't hesitate. He took it in both hands.
The moment he touched it, pain lanced through his veins.
He saw visions again—of wars fought in silence, heads severed in the dark, kings poisoned in their beds. The mask had been worn by countless shadows before him.
All loyal.
All deadly.
He slipped it on.
Darkness kissed his skin. Power sank into his bones.
When the mask settled fully, his vision changed.
He could see through the mist now—see mana flowing through the land like blood through a corpse. He saw the fortress in all its ancient glory, overlaid upon its ruin, and he saw a flickering presence far away—
—A soul burning gold behind a broken tower.
> "That's him," Velzaria whispered behind him. "General Solmir. Once my blade. Now… a hound of heaven."
> "And you want him dead?"
Velzaria's voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
> "I want him to remember who he betrayed before he dies."
Aeron stepped back from the edge.
He didn't feel fear.
He felt the mask pulsing against his skin, the fortress's power humming in his chest, and the weight of his queen's will behind every breath.
He spread his hand, and a pair of wings made of shadow and steel unfurled from his back.
The sky cracked open above.
And Aeron—no longer just a man, no longer a hero—launched into the air like a blade of vengeance.
Toward the traitor.
Toward blood.
Toward the beginning of war.
---
The sky howled as Aeron descended like a reaper from the clouds.
The wings of shadow trailing behind him hissed and evaporated mid-air, vanishing as his boots struck the stone rampart of Whispersteel Bastion with a thunderous echo.
The moment his feet touched down, the air shifted.
The fortress had long since fallen into disrepair—walls broken, towers shattered, its once-gleaming halls swallowed by vines of divine corruption. But beneath the rot… the bones of power still stood.
Aeron could feel them.
Like a heartbeat buried in stone.
The fortress was watching him.
Waiting.
> "I know you're here," he called into the silence.
His voice didn't echo.
It simply cut—like a blade slicing through still water.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then… footsteps.
Measured. Calm. Unafraid.
From a collapsed inner courtyard emerged a figure clad in armor of tarnished silver. Long white hair spilled down his shoulders, and a broken banner—once bearing Velzaria's sigil—dragged behind him, half-burned.
He held no weapon.
He needed none.
> "So," the man said, voice as smooth as glass, "the Queen sends ghosts to do her killing now?"
Aeron stepped forward. The mask still covered his face, but his voice remained steady. "She sent judgment."
The silver-haired man laughed.
Not madly. Not mockingly.
But sadly.
> "She used to do that herself."
His name was Solmir.
One of the Five Dread Generals. Once known as the Sword of Twilight. Now… a heretic to the abyss.
Aeron narrowed his eyes. "You served her."
Solmir nodded. "I did. With all I had. I built this fortress in her name. I burned cities on her command. I watched entire pantheons fall for her throne."
He looked up, his golden eyes glowing faintly.
> "And then I saw what she became."
Aeron didn't move.
Solmir continued, stepping toward him with slow grace. "You wear the Mask of Null. That means the Queen has chosen another… killer. You should know, the last man to wear it died with his soul screaming."
> "You think that frightens me?" Aeron asked.
> "No," Solmir said softly. "I think you don't understand what she is."
A flicker of light burst in Solmir's hand.
A blade—pure mana forged into form—manifested from nothing, golden and radiant. It wasn't holy in the traditional sense. But it was clean. Sharp. Like a truth too painful to hear.
> "Velzaria was never meant to rule," Solmir said. "She was made of sorrow and wrath. She didn't want peace. She wanted revenge dressed as justice."
Aeron's pulse quickened. The fortress behind him trembled.
> "And what about you?" he growled. "You kneeled to heaven. To the ones who chained her, who betrayed everything she built."
> "No," Solmir replied, lifting his blade. "I kneeled to mercy. Something you may never see again."
The moment the words left his mouth—
He vanished.
Aeron barely had time to block.
Solmir's blade came down like a meteor, cracking the rampart beneath them. Aeron slid back, shadow trailing from his limbs, as the ground beneath him exploded.
The mask fed him predictions. Timing. Velocity. Rage.
He leapt forward, blade forming from his gauntlet, and met Solmir blow for blow.
The clash was monstrous—steel against light, shadow against memory.
They moved like blurs across the ruined courtyard, shattering columns, ripping through what remained of the old banners. Dust and blood filled the air.
And through it all—Velzaria watched.
Far away, upon her throne of obsidian, her eyes flickered.
> "Let him bleed," she whispered. "Let him suffer. Let him decide who he really is."
Back at the battlefield, Solmir struck true.
His blade pierced through Aeron's shoulder, pinning him to a fallen column. The pain was real—but Aeron didn't scream.
Instead, he looked into Solmir's glowing eyes.
And grinned beneath the mask.
> "You were right about one thing," Aeron said through gritted teeth.
> "What's that?"
> "She doesn't want peace."
The shadows surged.
Aeron's weapon howled as it morphed into a jagged, whiplike chain of shadow—wrapping around Solmir's arm, yanking him forward—
> "And neither do I."
---
Solmir staggered as the chain yanked him forward, his golden blade sparking as it scraped against stone.
Aeron rose from the rubble, the shadow-wound in his shoulder pulsing with pain—but his eyes blazed violet beneath the mask. The moment Solmir's boots touched ground, Aeron struck.
His blade-arm morphed mid-swing, splitting into four jagged tendrils, each striking at impossible angles. Solmir parried two—barely. The third carved across his side. The fourth buried into his leg, dragging him down.
He hit the dirt hard, coughing blood.
But even now, the traitor general didn't beg.
> "Is this the part where you cut off my head?" Solmir muttered, spitting crimson.
> "No," Aeron said quietly, approaching. "This is the part where you tell me why."
Solmir looked up, eyes clouded by pain but still defiant. "Because I wanted to live."
The answer came fast. Brutally honest.
> "The war was lost. Velzaria was mad. Her generals were turning on each other. I had a choice: burn with her, or survive."
He coughed again. "So I bowed. I let them brand me. I let them purify this place. I killed our own kind. And they let me live."
Aeron stood over him now. His mask hissed as shadow rippled around him, fed by Velzaria's will… and his own growing wrath.
> "You could've stayed," Aeron said. "Fought beside her. Died with honor."
> "I wanted to," Solmir whispered. "Gods help me, I did."
Aeron raised his blade.
> "But you didn't."
Solmir didn't move.
Didn't beg.
Didn't pray.
> "Make it fast."
A moment of silence passed between them.
Then Aeron's shadow wrapped tighter.
Not around Solmir's neck. Not around his chest.
But his soul.
> "I won't just kill you," Aeron said, his voice low and cold. "You don't get to vanish into nothing."
Velzaria's power surged through him now—ancient, cruel, and merciless.
He uttered the command only a Shadow of the Queen could invoke.
> "I brand you traitor. And I chain you to the abyss."
A scream tore from Solmir's lungs—not of flesh, but spirit. His eyes went wide as black fire erupted inside his chest, devouring not just his body, but his name, his legacy.
He wasn't dying.
He was being erased.
His soul was sealed—locked in the deepest vault of Velzaria's throne, destined to exist as nothing more than a whisper… a warning.
When it was over, only ash remained.
Aeron stood still for a long moment, staring down at the scorched stone.
The air around him was quiet now. Even the fortress walls seemed to bow slightly, recognizing his authority.
He pulled off the mask.
His face was pale. Eyes hollow. Hands trembling.
But his voice?
Steady.
> "Whispersteel belongs to her again."
Behind him, the broken banners burned away—and new ones unfurled, black and red, bearing the mark of the Demon Queen.
Far away, Velzaria felt the change.
And smiled.
> "Good," she whispered. "He chose the blade."
---