The air near the Final Gate didn't just feel cold; it felt judgmental.
Malakor Zareth stood before the towering structure, his chest heaving. The silence left behind by Vane's agonizing demise was a weight he didn't want to carry. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the obsidian floor, until he stood before the Mirror of Truth.
It wasn't a mirror made of glass, but a swirling vortex of silver mist.
"Show me," Malakor hissed, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "Show the world the King I am meant to be."
The mist slowed. A reflection formed. But it wasn't the glorious, gold-armored conqueror Malakor expected. Instead, he saw a shriveled, dark shadow of himself—a creature built entirely of the lies he had told and the brothers he had stepped over. It showed him the moment he let Vane fall, the coldness in his eyes as he watched the Abyss consume his own blood.
"No," Malakor roared, his voice cracking. "That is a lie! I am the eldest! I am the legacy of Aetheron!"
He swung his blade at the mirror. The steel passed through the mist as if it were nothing. A voice, ancient and echoing from the very stones of the Abyss, vibrated through his bones.
"You seek to justify your darkness with a crown," the Spirit of the Gate spoke. "But a crown is not a mask for a hollow soul. You have no truth to offer. You have no heart to sacrifice. Begone, Shadow-Prince."
A wave of invisible force slammed into Malakor's chest. He was thrown backward, sliding across the rough stone, his royal tunic tearing against the jagged floor. The gate remained shut. Immovable. Absolute.
Panic, cold and sharp, finally replaced his rage. If he couldn't enter, he had to leave. He couldn't be found here, a failure, while Azeal was still somewhere in the depths.
Malakor scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. He grabbed a sharp stone and slashed it across his own shoulder, hissing in pain. He smeared the blood across his face and ripped his sleeves.
"If the Abyss won't give me the throne," he whispered, his voice trembling with a new, poisonous resolve, "then my lies will."
He turned and fled into the darkness of the upper tunnels, leaving behind the only chance he ever had at being a true King.
Meanwhile, in the quiet alcove, Azeal's eyes snapped open.
He wasn't in the cave anymore. He stood in a sea of golden flames, and before him stood a figure that made his heart stop.
Father?" Azeal whispered.
King Aetheron looked at him, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing with the prehistoric fire of the Drazhin. He didn't move to hug him. Instead, he pointed toward the distant, shimmering light of the Final Gate.
"The path is open, my son," the King's voice boomed. "But the price has changed. To save the one you love, you must lose the world you were born to rule. Are you ready to be nothing, so she can be everything?"
Azeal looked back at the unconscious Vaelora, and then at the gate. The Trial of Sacrifice had begun.