The high ridge felt like a graveyard at the edge of the world. The howling winds of the storm had died down into an eerie, suffocating silence, broken only by the ragged, wet gasps of Prince Azeal. He lay on one knee, his body trembling violently, using both hands on the hilt of the Star Fire Sword just to keep himself from collapsing flat into the blood-stained mud.
His eyes, though blurred with pain and sweat, remained locked on Draeven Zareth.
Draeven wiped the blackish blood from his broken nose, his expression twisting from shock into a manic, chilling laugh. The glowing blue scar across his torso—where Azeal's blade had melted his armor—hissed against the freezing air, but the dark lord did not seem to care about the pain anymore. He was driven by pure, unadulterated malice.
"You have played your part, little prince," Draeven whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, layered resonance that seemed to come from the mountain itself. "But your spark is finished."
Draeven raised his jagged obsidian staff high above his head. The three heavy strikes he had delivered to the stone floor had awakened something ancient and terrible deep within the mountain's roots. From the cracks in the obsidian altar, a thick, violet-black smoke began to pour out in massive, suffocating waves.
This was the ZhalverShadowHex—the ultimate, forbidden death-curse of the dark realm.
As the smoke crawled across the stone, the grass and frozen moss withered instantly into fine black dust. Azeal tried to summon the starlight within his sword, but the moment the cold shadow touched his boots, a paralyzing numbness shot up his legs. It felt as if liquid ice was being injected directly into his veins.
"Arise, children of the void," Draeven commanded, thrusting his staff forward.
The black smoke coalesced into screeching, faceless specters that swarmed around Azeal. They did not strike with physical weapons; instead, they flew straight through his body.
Azeal let out a choked, silent scream. Every time a specter passed through him, a piece of his soul felt like it was being violently torn away. The warmth of his life force was being sucked out, leaving behind only an agonizing, hollow coldness. His grip on the Star Fire Sword loosened. The brilliant blue fire on the blade flickered, dimmed, and finally died out, leaving the steel cold and grey.
"Does it hurt, Azeal?" Draeven mocked, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him. "It is the cold of the grave. The same cold that took your father."
Azeal fell forward, his chest slamming against the frozen mud. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. He couldn't feel his legs. The dark magic was wrapping around his throat like an invisible, tightening noose, cutting off his air. He tried to reach for his sword, but his fingers refused to obey. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and the world began to fade into a dark, silent grey.
"With your death, the final bloodline of Solthera is severed," Draeven sneered, standing directly over the broken prince. He raised his heavy staff, its jagged tip pulsing with a lethal violet light, ready to deliver the final, soul-shattering blow. "Goodbye, Prince Azeal."
Through the fading darkness of his vision, Azeal stared at the sky. He had failed. He couldn't protect his kingdom. He couldn't protect her. He closed his eyes, waiting for the cold steel to pierce his skull.
But the blow never came.
Instead, a sudden, blinding flash of pure golden light cut through the dark purple fog, followed by a sound that made Azeal's heart beat one more time—the thunderous, furious gallop of a starlight horse.