“Let’s make a deal,” Astraxian said, voice calm and sharp as shattered glass. “I think we’ve all had enough of this farce. There’s no need for more bloodshed.”

  Varek, still gripping the twin blades like lifelines, narrowed his eyes. “Then let her go. We’ll talk.”

  Astraxian chuckled—soft, cruel. “And what would stop you from fleeing the moment I do? No, no, no. She remains where she is.”

  He glanced at Lysara, his grip tightening on her throat just enough to make her flinch. “Comfortable enough, wouldn’t you say?”

  Then he turned back to Varek. “First—the swords. I’ll be reclaiming them. Toss them over, and don’t try anything. We both know I could end her faster than breath.”

  Varek hesitated, gaze falling to the blades. They caught the dying light—curved steel inscribed with runes, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat under skin.

  His father had given them to him the day he rose to Shahriyar. Not mere weapons—emblems of trust. Of legacy. Proof he bore the weight of his House. Now he saw the truth.

  They were never made for him. They had been taken back from something old. Something ruinous. That much was clear now.

  He didn’t want to let them go.

  He would miss them.

  But Lysara would die if he didn't.

  He stared at them one final moment. Then—he threw them. One. Then the other.

  They struck the earth with a cold chime, metallic and final. Astraxian did not go for them. Not yet. He stepped over them with a measured step—boots crunching ash and blood-soaked dust—his gaze flicking toward Akasha for a brief moment. Watchful. Calculating.

  He stopped before Varek.

  “Let’s make an exchange. Your life for hers. Offer your hand, and I’ll allow you to send her to safety.”

  Lysara tried to speak. Her voice rasped against her crushed throat—but Astraxian silenced her with a squeeze.

  Varek looked at her. Bruised. Broken. Barely holding on. His jaw clenched. His gaze faltered—just a second. But that was all it took. The moment cracked, then gave way.

  He nodded.

  Astraxian stepped in.

  His hand settled on Varek’s shoulder like the closing of a tomb—quiet, final, absolute.

  With a flick of his other wrist, he tossed Lysara like a broken doll. Before she could hit the ground, a portal shimmered into being beneath her, swallowing her whole.

  Varek’s breath caught as she vanished. For one heart-stopping instant, he feared betrayal. But when the glow dimmed and Astraxian turned away, something settled.

  She was safe.

  Relief struck him—sharp and sudden, loosening the knots in his chest. He exhaled, quietly, shakily. Letting it happen.

  Astraxian turned, his hand still resting lightly on Varek’s shoulder, and walked toward the fallen blades. As his fingers closed around them, the runes blazed to life—flaring with a brilliance not meant for mortal sight.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  A hiss followed, soft and serpentine, as the swords unraveled in his grip—dissolving into embers and the bitter scent of scorched magic.

  He faced the temple. Took a few deliberate steps toward it.

  Then paused.

  And glanced back at Akasha. His voice came soft as falling ash. “You may come, if you like. I accept your deal.”

  Varek turned. Relief soured.

  His eyes snapped to Akasha. Wide. Wounded. “What is he talking about? What deal?”

  She did not meet his gaze. Her face—drained, unreadable. She limped forward, pain etched into every step.

  Astraxian waved a hand. The hold of his power lifted. Healing surged through Akasha—loud in the silence. Bone knit. Flesh closed. She inhaled sharply, whole again.

  A crow was perched above them. Black as the void. Its eyes burned like coals. It watched. Too still. Too present. A witness.

  Silence stretched thin as they neared the temple gates. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Varek spoke. His voice trembled. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  Astraxian barely looked at him. “You’ll ascend to godhood.”

  Varek and Akasha froze.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Astraxian murmured, gently pressing Varek forward. “This won’t be natural. You’ll ascend by becoming something else's vessel. Something far, far beyond you. Perhaps a shred of you will remain—a whisper curled in the corner of his soul.”

  Silence broke like glass.

  “The friend you mentioned,” Varek whispered.

  Astraxian sighed. “Yes. He is a god, a celestial being. Celestials rewrite reality to varying degrees. They can’t walk the world in truth—not without unmaking it. The soul of the God of Life? It turns all it touches to flora. Beautiful, until a man’s lungs bloom into roses while he screams.”

  Varek’s eyes flicked to the cracks veining Astraxian’s skin.

  “You’re a vessel too. It’s failing. What happens if it breaks?”

  Astraxian met his gaze—cold as the void. “You don’t want to know.”

  They continued to walk in heavy silence. The temple gates loomed ever nearer, their towering forms swallowing the last of the light. Between them yawned a darkness so deep it seemed to breathe—slow, patient, and waiting.

  Elena lay crumpled by the gate, breath shallow. Astraxian paused, gazing down. His expression unreadable. “Send her somewhere quiet. Somewhere forgotten.”

  Varek frowned. “You nearly killed us all. And now this? Compassion?”

  Astraxian said nothing.

  Varek sighed, and with a flick of his hand, Elena vanished into a portal.

  They entered the temple.

  It bent reality with quiet cruelty.

  Columns spiraled not upward, but into directions that disobeyed logic. The ceiling shifted—one blink towering to infinity, the next, pressing close enough to suffocate. The floor shimmered—not with reflection, but with presence. As if something watched from beneath.

  Symbols slithered along the walls—carved not by tool, but time itself. They moved. Shifted. Spoke. Whispers coiled through the air, ancient beyond language. Some steps made no sound. Others echoed before they were even taken.

  And then—they saw it.

  Suspended midair.

  Defiant of gravity.

  The Fragment.

  A crystal. Broken. Wrong. Its surface twisted light into impossible color. It pulsed—not with life, nor power—but with absence.

  The air recoiled. Magic shuddered. Even silence dimmed.

  This was no object.

  It was the concept of endings, given shape.

  It breathed. Not with lungs—but inevitability.

  Varek had glimpsed it once, as a child. Even then it blurred his vision, shattered his thoughts. Now? It felt alive somehow. Aware.

  Astraxian stepped close.

  “A tip, boy,” he said softly. “Find a memory that defines you. That roots you. Relive it. Smell it. Taste it. Breathe it. If you wish to return with a name still your own—hold on. Or don’t. Perhaps forgetting is kinder.”

  Then:

  “Touch the crystal.”

  Varek trembled.

  He closed his eyes.

  He searched.

  Memories cascaded through him—blood-soaked halls, sleepless lessons, the weight of silence after battle. His father’s voice. Akasha’s teachings. Lysara’s too-loud laugh. A hundred pieces of himself.

  But one endured.

  He and his brother. By the river’s edge. Young. Barefoot. Blades in hand. The sun low. The water still.

  “We’ll be the strongest in the world,” they said.

  Not in jest. Not pride. But promise.

  His grip tightened.

  He reached forward.

  And touched the Fragment.

  His head snapped back. A silent scream tore through him. His spine arched in impossible pain.

  It lasted an instant.

  It lasted forever.

  The temple shook. The forest wailed. Birds scattered. Ash fell like mourning. Trees bowed away. Magic fled.

  And then—

  Varek collapsed.

  His eyes opened.

  Two voids stared out.

  His hair was bone-white. Skin pale as moonlight. Shadows draped him like a lover—twisting, crawling.

  He rose. Slowly. Flexed his fingers. Drew a breath like it was wine.

  He smiled.

  “Ah,” he said, voice no longer just his.

  “This will do just fine.”