The final corridor did not lead to a door, but to a vast, circular aperture, like the entrance to a monstrous amphitheater. The air that flowed from it was different—dry, cold, and humming with a power so dense it felt like wading through water. The cloying sweetness of decay was gone, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and a profound, chilling stillness. This was the heart of the silence. The throne room.
Kael and Lyra stepped through the aperture and into a space that defied the twisted geometry of the rest of the Bastion. It was perfectly, terrifyingly symmetrical. A vast, domed chamber, its walls and floor forged from the same seamless, polished obsidian as the mountain. There were no pillars, no furniture. The only feature was a dais in the exact center, upon which sat a throne carved from a single, massive crystal of blood-red amber. And within that amber, frozen in a final moment of agony, were the forms of leaves, insects, and the small, delicate skeleton of a songbird—a cruel preservation of the life this place had destroyed.
But the throne was empty.
The chamber was illuminated by a single, sickly green shaft of light that fell from the apex of the dome, illuminating the center of the floor. And there, standing within that light, was a man.
He was tall and gaunt, draped in robes of feathers that were not black, but the absolute absence of light, a void that seemed to drink the green illumination around him. His face was pale and sharply handsome, but his eyes were the color of the lichen that plagued the Weald, and they held a chilling, intellectual calm. His hands, long-fingered and unnaturally still, were clasped before him. This was not a warrior. This was a priest. A scholar of ruin.
Corvus.
He did not turn as they entered. His voice, when it came, was smooth and cultured, carrying through the vast space without echo, as if the room itself hung on his every word.
"The instrument of so-called justice," he said, his tone one of mild curiosity. "And the last child of a dying world, clinging to its corpse. I have been waiting for you. The Scale must have its counter-weight, after all."
Lyra had her bow drawn in an instant, the arrow aimed directly at the center of his back. Kael's hand rested on his sword, but he did not draw it. This was not a foe to be met with blind fury.
"Your reign of blight ends here, Corvus," Kael's voice rang out, flat and hard against the polished stone.
Corvus finally turned, a slow, deliberate motion. His green eyes passed over Lyra as if she were an interesting insect, before settling on Kael. A faint, condescending smile touched his lips.
"My reign? You misunderstand, Oathbreaker. I am no king. I am a gardener. A cultivator. I am merely tending the seeds my Queen sowed. The seeds you helped water with her blood."
He gestured with one of those long, pale hands, and the green light from the dome intensified, coalescing into shimmering images in the air around them. They saw the Verdant King forest in its prime, a breathtaking tapestry of life. Then they saw Morganna's war, the scarred plains, the death. And finally, they saw Kael's sword fall, and the ensuing, silent, black shockwave that radiated outwards, not from Morganna, but from the point of her death.
"You see?" Corvus murmured, his voice hypnotic. "The stories they tell are lies. The blight was not her final curse. It was a release. A necessary purging. The world was weak, choked by sentiment, by Lysander's endless, enfeebling mercy. My Queen understood that true strength requires culling. That life must be burned away to make room for a new, more perfect order."
His eyes glowed with fanatical fervor. "You did not damn the world, Paladin. You pruned it. You performed the first, most vital act of the new age. You are not the hero they deserve. You are the midwife of the world they need."
"He's stalling," Lyra snarled, and her arrow flew.
It never reached him. Corvus didn't even flinch. A foot from his chest, the arrow shattered, its pieces turning to dust that was absorbed into the void of his robes.
"Such impatience," he sighed. "The child of a fleeting age, always rushing towards its end."
Kael drew his sword. The silver light that erupted was a physical shock in the oppressive chamber, a challenge roared into the silence. It pushed back against the green illumination, carving a space of pure, cold truth in the heart of the lie.
Corvus's smile widened. "Ah. There it is. The light of blind judgment. The hammer that sees only nails. Theron was always the least imaginative of the divinities."
He raised his hands. The shadows at the edges of the room detached themselves from the walls, flowing together to form four tall, slender figures. They were made of solidified darkness, with long, blade-like arms and featureless faces. Shades. The perfect soldiers for this lightless court.
"Entertain my companions," Corvus said, his tone dismissive. "I have a ritual to conclude."
The Shades surged forward, silent and swift.
"The Shades are mine!" Lyra yelled, already moving. She fired two arrows in rapid succession, not at the Shades themselves, but at the floor in front of them. The arrowheads erupted in a flash of the same pale blue light she had used on the Rime Wraith. The creatures recoiled, their forms rippling in discomfort. She was a whirlwind of motion, using her speed and the enchanted arrows to kite them, to keep them occupied and away from Kael.
Her eyes met Kael's for a split second. Go.
Kael didn't hesitate. He ignored the Shades and charged straight for Corvus, his silver light a lance aimed at the heart of the corruption.
Corvus merely watched him come, his expression one of bored disappointment. As Kael brought his sword down in a cleaving arc that could split a mountain, Corvus finally moved. He didn't dodge. He raised a single finger.
A wall of absolute blackness, cold and solid as the bedrock of the world, sprang into existence between them. Kael's sword slammed into it, and the impact was like striking a continent. The force threw him backwards, his arms numb to the shoulders, the silver light of his blade flickering violently.
"You see?" Corvus's voice was calm from behind the wall. "You are a tool. A concept. You have no nuance. No understanding of the great work being done here."
The wall dissolved. Corvus stood now before the amber throne, his hands raised towards the dome. The green light focused into a searing beam, striking the throne. The amber began to glow from within, the tiny skeleton of the bird twisting as if in fresh agony.
"The world was purified by fire once," Corvus intoned, his voice rising with evangelical passion. "Now, it shall be perfected by stillness. By an end to all striving, all weakness, all pain. And she shall lead us. She shall be the silent queen of a silent world!"
Kael pushed himself to his feet, his sword flaring back to life. He could feel it now—the purpose of this entire fortress, the reason for the blight. It was not a weapon of conquest. It was a focusing lens. A giant, arcane engine designed to channel the death of the Weald, to gather all that stolen life and sorrow, and use it for a single, terrible purpose.
Resurrection.
Corvus wasn't just nurturing the blight. He was harvesting it. He was going to use the accumulated death of the forest to bring back the Soul-Queen.
The Scale in Kael's soul screamed in imbalance. The debt was about to become infinite.
He saw Lyra, still fighting, a gash on her temple bleeding freely as she barely dodged a Shadow's bladed arm. He saw the fanatical light in Corvus's eyes. He saw the amber of the throne beginning to crack, a new, terrible power gathering within it.
This was not a battle for a village, or even for a region. This was a battle for the very soul of creation. Mercy against Justice against… Annihilation.
Kael raised his sword, not just as a weapon, but as a declaration. The silver light burned brighter than ever before, no longer just a glow, but a corona of divine fury.
"There will be no silent world," Kael's voice boomed, filled with the power of the Iron Scale. "There will only be judgment."
He charged again, not at Corvus, but at the throne itself. The final verdict was at hand.