The Priestess staggered backward, her breath caught in her throat as she felt the invisible chain that tethered King Hazrael to her unravel. Shock flickered in her dark eyes, breaking her composed veneer. For centuries, she had been the puppeteer, her mastery over King Hazrael’s mind and will ensuring her dominion. But now, her power was unraveling, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand in a storm.

  From the shadows, Elden stood. He had moved with silent precision. His expression was unreadable, a mask of deadly intent. The cacophony of the battlefield seemed to dull as he drew closer, the screams of the dying and the clash of steel fading to a distant hum. In his hands, his blade glinted. His breathing was steady, his resolve unshakable. This wasn’t just an attack—it was a reckoning. He had betrayed Aerin, his friends. He had promised King Hazrael to kill Aerin. To kill the woman he now loved so desperately. As he stepped closer and closer his breathing became quieter, as he was holding his breath.

  The Priestess didn’t hear him coming. Her focus remained on King Hazrael, her lips moving in silent incantation as she tried desperately to reclaim her hold over him. But her words were empty, hollow fragments of power that faltered without their anchor.

  Elden struck without hesitation. His blade drove into her back with a sickening crunch, the steel piercing through layers of muscle and bone, lodging itself between her shoulder blades. The force of the strike sent a shudder through his arm, a vibration that seemed to echo in his chest, as though something inside him had broken too.

  She staggered forward, her breath escaping in a sharp, guttural gasp. The sound wasn’t just pain—it was surprise, betrayal, and something deeper: the raw, unfiltered terror of someone realizing that their end had come. Her fingers twitched, clawing at the air as if she could grasp something, anything, to stop what was happening.

  Her knees gave out beneath her, and she crumpled to the earth, her hands splayed in the dirt. Fingernails dug into the soil, tearing it apart as though she could anchor herself there, pull herself back from the void that was opening up to swallow her whole. The metallic tang of blood filled the air as it poured from her wound, spreading in a dark, shimmering pool beneath her.

  Elden didn’t pull the blade out. His hands tightened around the hilt, knuckles white with the force of his grip. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his face set in a mask of grim determination. He knew if he hesitated, even for a moment, she could recover. She could rise. And if she rose, she would bring hell upon all of them.

  The Priestess trembled beneath him, her body shuddering like a marionette with its strings cut. Yet, even as her strength ebbed, she turned her head, her neck craning at an unnatural angle to meet his gaze.

  Her eyes burned with disbelief, the irises dark pools that seemed to question the very fabric of reality. For a fleeting moment, they were filled with something almost human—not plea, not mercy, but a quiet, searing demand: Why?

  Elden didn’t answer. His jaw clenched tighter, his teeth grinding as he twisted the blade deeper. The resistance of her flesh was sickening, the grinding scrape of steel against bone an unholy symphony in the silence that followed. He felt her body convulse beneath him, a final, desperate protest against death itself.

  Her breath hitched, a broken, stuttering sound that clawed its way up her throat. Blood bubbled at the corner of her lips, stark against the pallor of her skin. She tried to speak, her mouth forming shapes that never became words. And then, with a soft, ragged exhale, her body stilled.

  The light in her eyes dimmed, flickering like a dying flame, before vanishing entirely.

  Elden released the hilt, his hands trembling. For a moment, he stayed there, staring down at her lifeless form. The world around him seemed to close in, the sounds of battle muted, the air heavy with the stench of blood and soil.

  There was no victory in this. No triumph. Only the weight of what he had done pressing down on him, heavier than any blade he had ever wielded.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The Priestess lay there, her face frozen in that final expression of disbelief, as though even in death she couldn’t accept that someone like her—a force, a power—could be brought so low.

  Elden staggered back, his boots slipping in the blood-soaked earth. His chest heaved, his breath ragged. He had done what needed to be done, but as he looked at her lifeless body, he couldn’t shake the feeling that some part of him had died with her.

  King Hazrael watched from the distance, his face a mixture of emotions—horror, relief, and something darker, almost triumphant. The Priestess, his tormentor, his wielder, his crutch, was gone. And with her death, the chains that had shackled him were obliterated. “Finally”, he breathed out to himself. But freedom came with a cost. Without her, he was exposed. Vulnerable. His grip on power, once absolute, now dangled by a thread.

  The ground beneath the Priestess began to tremble, a low, ominous rumble that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth itself. Her lifeless body glowed faintly, a sinister light radiating from her as the magic she had hoarded for so long—magic stolen from Aerin’s family—began to break free.

  A deafening roar filled the battlefield, drowning out all sound. The power surged upward, an unstoppable force, dark and feral, spiraling toward the heavens before crashing down into Aerin.

  She screamed, her voice raw and unrecognizable, as the magic tore into her. It was not a gift but a violation, a brutal reclamation of what was rightfully hers. The weight of it was unbearable, a tide of rage, sorrow, and power that threatened to drown her. She fell to her knees, her hands clawing at her chest as if she could rip the magic out. The magic called to her, like a whisper. Through every shadow, it sang to her. Louder and louder. Her nose started to bleed, dripping down her lips and chin.

  The battlefield froze, all eyes drawn to her. The glow around her was blinding, a torrent of energy that pulsed with every beat of her heart. It wasn’t hopeful or triumphant. It was agony.

  Elden stood over the Priestess’s corpse, bloodied and breathing heavily. He turned to look at Aerin, his face pale, his eyes hollow. “Take it,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Take it all.”

  But the magic didn’t just transfer—it ravaged her. Aerin’s body shuddered, her skin alight with the force of it. Memories that weren’t hers flooded her mind, generations of pain and betrayal, every injustice her family had suffered at the hands of King Hazrael and the Priestess. Her screams turned to sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably as the magic settled, a dark and consuming presence within her. Every image from the Priestess and Kael, his misery, his pain. She saw it like she was the one who made him suffer.

  King Hazrael took a step back, his face pale. He could feel it, the shift in power. Aerin was no longer the girl he had hunted, the broken thing he thought he could crush. She was something far more dangerous now—something he couldn’t control.

  But she was also breaking. The weight of the magic, the trauma it carried, bore down on her like a mountain. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that if she didn’t master it, it would destroy her just as surely as he had planned to. He needed to move fast, make a new plan. Elden still had a promise to him, a vow.

  Elden moved toward her, his steps unsteady. “Aerin,” he called out, his voice hoarse. “We need to move. We need to—”

  She looked up at him, her eyes glowing with an eerie light. But there was no relief in them, no gratitude. Only despair.

  The war wasn’t over. The Priestess was dead, but the scars she had left behind were deeper than any blade. Hazrael remained, his forces regrouping, and Aerin…

  Aerin wasn’t sure she would survive what came next.

  Behind Elden, King Hazael moved fast. He took a hold of Elden, gripping his body holding a small dagger close to his throat.

  “I am happy to see you, Elden”, he whispered close to his ears “Have you come to give me what you promised?”

  Elden’s eyes flashed towards Aerin, she was hunched over on the ground, Kael and Talon stroking her back as she heaved. The magic was too much for her, filling her up to her breakingpoint. Her eyes met his. Anger rushed through his body as Hazraels breath touched his neck. Elden’s muscles tensed beneath Hazrael’s grip, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The dagger at his throat bit into his skin, a shallow line of crimson beading against the blade’s edge. Hazrael’s breath was hot and rancid against his ear, and the king’s voice dripped with venom.

  “You look conflicted, Elden,” Hazrael taunted. “Did you forget our agreement? Or has the girl made you weak?”

  Elden’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. His gaze flicked back to Aerin. She was trembling, her breaths uneven as she fought the surge of magic threatening to tear her apart. Kael and Talon whispered urgently to her, their hands steadying her even as her power sparked and crackled in the air around them.

  Hazrael chuckled, a low, dark sound that made Elden’s stomach churn. “It’s almost tragic. All that power, and yet she can’t control it. She’ll destroy herself before she ever gets the chance to destroy me.”