The sky above the Blackvein Hollow rift twisted violently, colors bleeding into one another like spilled oil.
At the edge of the still-quaking rift, the prime riftspawn towered—its maw gaping with ancient hunger, its crystalline exoskeleton pulsating with void light.
The wind that howled around it carried no air, only pressure—as if the heavens themselves were resisting the monster's presence.
Kane knelt at the rift's heart, talismans spread in a radiant circle, sweat pouring down his face as he channeled all his strength into closing the rift.
The air buckled around him, threads of reality tightening and tearing with every second.
Arasha stood between the creature and Kane, battered, bloodied, but unbroken.
"I won't let you get past me," she said, her voice iron.
The riftspawn screeched, an unearthly sound that tore at sanity, and lunged.
Arasha met it head-on.
The clash shook the valley.
Her blade sang with divine resonance, carving gashes into its bone-crystal hide, while its claws and void tendrils lashed out with vicious speed.
Every strike she delivered was met with another wound, her armor cracking, her left gauntlet shattered, her shoulder torn open.
Still she fought.
With a roar, she drove her sword into its side, channeling sanctified fire into the wound.
It shrieked, but retaliated with a blast of void energy that hurled her a dozen feet into a ridge of stone. Her vision blurred. Her bones screamed.
Kane cried out behind her, the rift fighting his hold, nearly overwhelming the seal.
She could feel it: they were losing.
Her heartbeat slowed. Her breaths grew shallow. The prime riftspawn loomed again, ready to strike.
And Arasha made a choice.
She used the power lurking within her, something unknown and dangerous, branded into her soul by the Primordials themselves.
Her chest glowed, faint at first, then brilliant.
The seal beneath her collarbone ignited, burning gold-white and pulsing with memory: of her parents' sacrifice, of loyal knights fallen, of children she protected, of Kane's silent warmth at her back.
She stood.
As the prime riftspawn struck, and so she met it.
The primordial flame exploded from her form, wings of light unfurling, her blade reshaped into a spear of celestial flame, like those in her order's crest. Her hair lifted as if underwater.
"You who tries to bring chaos into this land," she said, walking forward. "I am the reckoning you feared."
She fought like the storm given shape.
Every movement tore through the riftspawn's defenses, her spear bypassing its temporal armor, her strikes echoing like divine thunder.
She moved faster than light, burning years of her life for each empowered second. Her body cracked under the strain. Her skin blistered.
But she did not stop.
With a final, soaring cry, she leapt and drove the spear through the riftspawn's eye cluster, channeling every last ember of borrowed primordial power into its core.
It shrieked—then imploded in a spiral of dark light.
The battlefield fell silent.
Kane gasped in relief, sweat-slick and shaking, the rift's energy finally subsiding under his seal.
But too soon.
Without warning, the rift pulsed violently—its light turning a virulent red. The energy surged in one final, hateful burst, and Kane, still too close, was caught in the shockwave.
"KANE!"
Arasha didn't hesitate.
She flung herself toward him, seizing his arm and pulling him back just as a tendril of rift energy tried to drag him in.
Her shield shattered. Her lifeblood burned.
And the rift answered.
With a deafening thoom, the energy turned inward—and pulled Arasha in.
Kane screamed her name, reaching—but the void swallowed her whole.
****
Arasha landed hard on a shifting plane of shadow and ash. There was no sky—only a swirling, endless tapestry of chaos.
Around her, towering monstrosities twisted and loomed. Riftspawn of every shape, every scale, every nightmare.
Endless.
They turned toward her. Eyes gleaming. Jaws salivating.
She raised her broken blade, breath ragged, heart slowing—but steady.
So this is what the prophecy meant.
Not striking down the King for power—but for the world's survival.
Alone, beneath the gaze of a thousand monsters, Arasha stood with fire still burning in her eyes.
"I'll keep fighting," she whispered, smiling faintly. "Until you send me back—or break trying."
And then the monsters charged.
****
Time had long since dissolved inside the rift.
Arasha no longer knew how many hours—days—had passed since she was swallowed by the void.
Her armor was cracked and scorched, held together by sheer will. Her blade was half its length, dulled but still in her grip.
And the monsters never stopped coming.
Twisted amalgamations of nightmares surged endlessly, each one more vile than the last.
Yet Arasha stood among their broken remains, surrounded by a growing grave of slain riftspawn.
Her body screamed in agony with every breath, but her eyes remained steady. Her flame, however dimmed, had not gone out.
She pressed forward.
Drawn by some invisible pull, Arasha moved deeper into the rift. The twisted, chaotic geometry gave way to something older, more structured—something pulsing with rhythm and purpose. At the heart of it, resting within a canyon of obsidian marrow, she found it:
A cocoon, vast as a cathedral. It pulsed with sickly light—red, black, and violet tendrils reaching into the rift's lining like roots.
Arasha staggered forward. Her knees threatened to give.
This was the source. The heart of the rift network. If she destroyed it, the endless tide might finally cease.
She gripped her sword tighter. But even lifting it now was a feat. Her breath hitched. Her vision wavered.
Then a voice—not spoken, but felt—unfolded in her mind like an ancient echo.
"You have come far, thread-weaver. But you are bound by the laws of flesh. You cannot strike what lies beyond your limits."
She raised her head slowly, too tired to speak, but defiant still.
"Yet you may still succeed," the voice coiled around her spirit, warm and cold. "I offer you a key. A strength borrowed—not from this life, but from your other threads. You have lived a thousand fates. A thousand Arashas breathe across the worlds. Their strength can be yours—for a cost."
Arasha's heart pounded in her ears.
"You will siphon their essence. Their chances at love, peace, triumph. You will rob them. They will grieve, and they will never know why."
A thousand fates flashed through her. Arasha who lived as a scholar. Another who knew only family, no war. One who had died too young. One who found peace by Kane's side, far from blades.
She saw them all.
Her throat tightened.
Then she whispered, voice cracked and full of sorrow:
"I'm sorry. To all of you. Forgive me... but this world still needs saving."
She closed her eyes.
"I'll take the power."
The cocoon pulsed in answer. The rift shuddered violently as fate itself twisted.
Light, pure and endless, poured into Arasha. Not from the rift—but through the seams of reality itself.
From distant echoes of her being. Knowledge and strength surged into her like a burning river.
Her eyes blazed gold.
The broken sword in her hand reshaped into a glaive of woven starlight and memory. Her wounds sealed with light-born flame. Her limbs moved like time itself obeyed her.
And then she leapt—soared—into the air and brought the glaive down upon the cocoon.
The impact was soundless. Light consumed everything.
The rift collapsed.
****
The sky above the battlefield split open.
A luminous tear blazed across the heavens, and from it fell a figure wrapped in collapsing starlight. Arasha, arms limp, eyes half-closed, descended like a dying star.
Kane saw her.
He ran—ignoring the rubble, the tremors, the fire. He sprinted across the field, heart bursting with every step.
Soldiers and commanders watched in breathless awe as the Commander fell from the heavens.
He caught her just before she hit the earth.
She was feather-light. Weightless.
His knees struck the ground as he clutched her close, her body scorched with divine aftermath. Tears streamed down his face as he held her in trembling arms.
"Arasha—please—" his voice cracked. "Stay with me. Just stay—"
But she couldn't hear him. Her vision was fading, her senses dulled. The world blurred into silence.
Still, she looked up at him, her eyes soft with relief. Her hand, barely able to rise, brushed his cheek—just once.
And she smiled.
A smile that spoke of peace… and regret… and gratitude.
Then, like a wisp of light, Arasha vanished in his arms.
Gone.
Kane collapsed forward, screaming her name to the heavens, holding onto empty air.
And across the battlefield, even the wind went silent.
Where once the earth trembled under clashing steel and the roar of monstrous riftspawn, now there was only silence—an unnatural, bone-deep stillness.
The rift had collapsed, leaving behind scorched stone and warped air that shimmered faintly, as if time itself still mourned.
Kane remained on his knees.
His arms cradled only the memory of her now—Arasha, his partner, the love of his life, his quiet light.
She had vanished like mist at dawn, her warmth lingering only in the tears soaking the fabric over his chest.
He stared blankly at the space where she'd been.
His breath trembled.
His lips moved, silently forming her name again and again like a forgotten prayer.
His hands, so strong and sure in battle, now shook with helplessness.
Then footsteps. Soft, hesitant, but weighted with grief.
Leta approached.
Her hair was tangled, her cheeks stained with ash and blood. She looked younger than she was. Her shoulders quivered with every step.
"Kane…" she called, voice cracking.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
When she reached him, her knees gave out beside him. The moment her eyes saw the empty air in his arms, the last of her restraint shattered.
She covered her mouth to hold back a sob—but it escaped anyway, raw and broken.
"She's… she's really gone…"
Kane didn't look at her.
His eyes were fixed skyward, still trying to trace the fading echoes of Arasha's fall.
Leta pressed her forehead to the dirt. Her sobs spilled freely now, and she wasn't alone.
Across the blackened field, Arasha's knights—her chosen, her faithful—stood in stunned silence.
The elder among them bowed their heads, unable to contain their sorrow. They wept without shame.
But it was the youngest—the squires, the fresh-blooded knights, those who had only just begun to follow Arasha's banner—who broke the silence.
A scream of grief tore from a young woman's throat.
Then another. A wail.
And then more, dozens, a chorus of loss and disbelief rising to the heavens.
Voices cracking, fists pounding the earth, blades stabbed into the ground as they screamed her name to the sky as if heaven itself could be shaken into mercy:
"Commander—!!"
"Bring her back—!"
"You can't—she can't be gone—!"
Their voices rang across the hills, over the trees, over the corpses and ruin. Loud and raw and desperate. Not for glory, not for vengeance—but for love. For their commander. Their guiding star. Their protector.
The heavens did not answer.
But the clouds above parted slightly, and soft rays of gold fell through the broken smoke.
Not warmth. Not forgiveness.
Only remembrance.
Kane finally looked down. His hands closed slowly over the pendant Arasha had always worn beneath her armor—now left in the dirt where she vanished. A shard of blue stone, warm to the touch.
He gripped it in both hands and pressed it to his heart.
"She gave everything…" he murmured, voice hoarse, "And all I could do… was catch her too late."
Leta leaned her head against his shoulder, unable to speak, only able to cry beside him.
The knights formed a circle around them—silent guardians to the shattered center. Their blades grounded, their heads bowed. The wind passed through them like a mourning song.
And in the middle of it all, on scorched earth and beneath a sky that had borne witness to gods and monsters, they mourned not just a commander…
But the heart of a kingdom.