Chapter 98 – When Titans Bleed
Ashmere still burned.
And in its ember-light, two legacies walked to meet.
On one side, Caedren, the Crowned Without Mercy, forged in the wake of Kael's shadow. Cloaked in soot and pain, sword strapped to back like a cross he never asked to bear.
On the other, Galen, General of the Sundering Host, once a sworn brother beneath Ivan's dream, now the Wound that Would Not Heal. His armor was lacquered bone. His blade was the Verdict, made from steel taken from the gallows.
They faced each other beneath a sky painted in ash and blood.
Around them, both armies ceased. Even war paused to watch.
No words. No rites. No second chances.
They charged like storms bound in flesh.
Galen struck first—a lateral sweep that aimed not for flesh, but for footing. Caedren leapt, boot planting on Verdict's flat, flipping overhead, his blade drawn in one impossible motion.
Steel kissed steel. A scream like a dying star rang out. The first clash shattered the nearby air. Both were thrown backward. Both grinned.
Caedren lunged next—fainting high, slashing low, pivoting into a spin that brought his sword in a reverse arc to catch Galen's neck.
Galen ducked under, grabbed Caedren's wrist mid-strike, twisted—
Bones cracked.
Caedren drove a knee into Galen's gut.
Galen didn't flinch—he bit the leg, teeth tearing through leather and flesh.
Caedren staggered.
Galen headbutted him once, twice, a third time—until Caedren's crown split his own brow open.
Both reeled.
Neither fell.
And then the fight truly began.
Galen broke the ground as he moved, his strikes heavy enough to warp shields. Verdict's edge burned with flameglyphs—each wound it opened did not close.
Caedren bled from seven places in seconds.
But he moved like the wind's bastard child. Spinning, leaping, rebounding off the very debris of the field, using ruined swords and shattered bones as stepping stones.
He buried his blade into Galen's shoulder.
Galen let it stay, grabbed Caedren's head and slammed it into the hilt.
Caedren bit through his own tongue to stay conscious.
He shoved forward, both arms locked, and drove Galen into a burning tree.
Flames erupted.
The branches fell upon them.
They vanished in fire.
A moment of stillness.
Then Galen emerged, armor aflame, dragging Caedren in a chokehold, one arm limp, but fury undimmed.
He tossed Caedren across the field.
The crowned warrior hit stone, rolled once, twice—
Did not rise.
Lysa screamed.
But held her ground.
Tarn took a step—then stopped.
Because Caedren moved.
Slow.
Staggered.
But rising.
The crown glowed faintly—molten embers clinging to it like memories that wouldn't die.
He spat blood.
And said:
"You were supposed to build the dream. Not burn it."
Galen sneered, face a mask of smoke and blood. "Dreams are for the dead. I build what lives."
He charged, Verdict raised, both hands trembling from exhaustion—but aiming to end it.
Caedren waited.
At the last moment, he stepped inside the strike.
Let it gash his ribs.
Grabbed Galen's throat.
And whispered: "Then die with your kingdom."
He lifted the general with one hand, slammed him into the ground, and drove his blade through Galen's chest.
It passed through armor. Through memory. Through betrayal.
And into the earth.
Galen gasped once.
Then laughed.
"Too late… Caedren… the real war… hasn't even begun…"
His hand dropped.
And his body stilled.
The field was silent.
Ash drifted like feathers from a broken wing.
Caedren stood, panting, bleeding from a dozen wounds, the crown heavy upon his head.
He looked at the dead man.
And then beyond him.
To the sky.
Where the clouds twisted.
Not from fire.
But from something else.
A shape in the dark.
A signal only he could feel.
The true enemy had noticed.
Galen was only the gate.
What walked through now…
Was older than kings.
Older than Kael.
And hungrier than any crown.