The wasteland stretched in every direction, a flat plain of cracked earth and gray dust under a bruise-colored sky. The air tasted as if a storm had just died here, all ozone and the thick, coppery smell of old blood. Aether stood in the middle of it, his breath coming in ragged hitches that tore at the deep gash in his side.
His black armor was more memory than protection now, plates hanging loose or missing entirely, and the dual swords in his hands felt like lead weights. One blade was notched, the other's edge dulled from hacking through things that bled black and oily ichor. That same ichor was smeared across his chest and arms, mixing with the darker red of his own blood until it was impossible to tell where he ended and the enemy began.
They surrounded him, a shifting wall of claws and teeth and malformed limbs. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, their low growls vibrating through the ground into the soles of his broken boots. He adjusted his grip, the leather of his gloves slick, and the movement sent a fresh wave of pain up his arm.
He was so tired.
A path cleared through the horde, then the creatures shuffling aside without a sound. A man walked through the gap, his steps casual, like he was taking a stroll in a park. He wore pristine white robes that seemed to glow against the grime of the world, and his face was calm and bored. This was Azrael.
He stopped a dozen feet away, his eyes flicking over the mountain of monster corpses Aether had already made and then over Aether himself. A pitying smile touched his lips.
"Quite the performance, Shadow Archon," Azrael said, his voice carrying easily across the dead air. "But the curtain has to fall sometime. Are you ready to be sensible? To lay down your toys and join the winning side?"
Aether spat a glob of blood onto the dust between them. "Go to hell."
"Such defiance," Azrael sighed, as if dealing with a stubborn child. "It's a waste. The others saw reason in the end. The Ice Archon begged, you know. The Earth Archon tried to bargain. It didn't save them. They're all gone now. You're the last piece on the board."
He took a step closer, his gaze dropping to Aether's waist, to the small black orb secured there. It felt cold against Aether's skin, a familiar chill.
"My master doesn't want you dead, Aether. He wants what you carry. The Dark Arcana. That little seed of oblivion you have. Serve him, and you'll live. You might even thrive in the new order."
Aether's knuckles were white on his sword hilts. The offer hung in the foul air, a temptation wrapped in absolute surrender. He saw the future Azrael was selling, a leash around his neck, his power turned against the remnants of everything he knew.
He lifted his head, meeting Azrael's placid eyes.
"I'd rather die right here," Aether said, and his voice was final, "than live as your master's dog."
Azrael's smile vanished. The polite pretense dropped away, leaving something underneath. He took a step back into the ranks of his monsters.
"Then die."
He flicked his fingers.
The horde moved as one, a tidal wave of fangs and fury crashing inward.
Aether didn't have the strength for a long fight. He had enough for one last, clean sweep. He crossed his shattered swords in front of him, focusing every scrap of will, every ounce of pain, into the orb at his hip. It drank his desperation greedily.
Void Slash.
He swung out.
A crescent of pure darkness, ripped from the crossed blades. It flew soundlessly, and where it passed, the air itself seemed to scream and warp. It hit the front line of monsters and didn't stop. It expanded, the edges of the crescent curling inward, collapsing into itself.
A localized black hole bloomed in the center of the horde.
It made no sound, but Aether felt the pull in his bones. Dozens of monsters were yanked off their feet, limbs flailing, as they were dragged into that perfect sphere of nothing. They compressed, bones snapping like dry twigs, before being swallowed into a pinprick of non-existence that then winked out.
The hole left a cleared circle of scorched earth.
Aether was already moving, his body screaming in protest. A massive beast, all armored plates and spear-like limbs, lunged from his blind spot. The killing blow came faster than he could block.
Ghost Dive.
He let his knees buckle, but instead of hitting the ground, he melted into his own shadow at his feet. The sensation was like sinking into frigid, black water. He slid through the darkness, a phantom moving under the feet of his enemies.
He erupted from the shadow of a towering, insectoid creature twenty yards behind the main line.
His swords were a blur of dull metal as he came up swinging, cutting through tendon and chitin with the last of his momentum. He carved a path through the confused rear ranks until his strength gave out and he stumbled back into solid light.
The battle raged after that, but it wasn't a battle anymore. It was a grinding erosion.
Hours bled together under the unchanging sky. Aether lost track of time, of thought, of anything but the next parry, the next slash. He fought until his swords snapped, until his armor fell away in pieces, until he was just a man covered in wounds, swinging broken shards of metal.
When the last monster finally fell, collapsing at his feet, there was no one left to fight.
Aether stood alone, swaying, on a small mountain of corpses. The plain around him was a charnel house, a sea of still forms and black pools. His breath sawed in his throat, each inhale a knife. He looked at his hands. They were empty. The sword hilts were gone. He was naked from the waist up, his skin a map of cuts and bruises and drying blood.
He had nothing left.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
A clapping sound broke the silence.
Azrael picked his way over the fallen, his white robes still spotless. He stopped at the base of the corpse-mountain and looked up at Aether.
"Bravo," Azrael called up to him. "The Strongest Archon, to the very end. A magnificent, useless display."
Aether tried to speak, but only a raw cough came out. He swallowed blood. "Traitor."
"A matter of perspective," Azrael said, beginning to climb the bodies as if they were stairs. "I chose the future. You chose a grave."
He reached the top and stood facing Aether, close enough to touch. "I'll give your world to my master, of course. The survivors will make excellent resources. Labor. Fodder. Entertainment."
Aether's vision, already tunneling, focused on Azrael's face. There was a light in his eyes, a cruel, gleaming amusement.
"But don't worry about your people, Aether. Don't trouble your final thoughts with them."
Azrael leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"They're already dead. Everyone. The pretty healer. The fiery knight who always blushed. The quiet scholar, the cunning thief… all of them. I had them gathered up weeks ago. It was quick, if that's any comfort. My master does so hate loose ends."
The words didn't feel real.
They were just sounds, empty noises in the dead air. But they landed in Aether's chest and hollowed him out, leaving a vast space where his heart was supposed to be. He stopped feeling the pain in his body. He stopped feeling anything at all.
No.
That was the only thought, a single scream in the void inside him.
No, no, no.
Azrael smiled at the emptiness in Aether's eyes. "There it is. The final break. Good."
Then he moved. Aether saw the dagger in his hand, a sliver of polished bone, but he couldn't make his body react. The bone dagger punched into his stomach.
Azrael twisted the blade, his face a mask of detached interest. Aether gasped, a wet, sucking sound, and his legs folded. He crumpled to his knees on the bed of dead monsters.
Azrael didn't stop. He wrenched the dagger free, and in two swift, brutal motions, he severed the tendons behind Aether's knees. Aether fell backward, his legs now useless weights.
Then Azrael took his wrists, pinned them to the ground with a foot, and cut deep into the flesh of his forearms, separating muscle, finding the bone. He worked until his hands came free. He tossed the severed hands aside, where they landed among the other corpses.
"A slow death for a stubborn man," Azrael said, wiping his dagger clean on a scrap of Aether's torn clothing.
"Fitting."
He turned and walked away, descending the mountain of flesh without a backward glance. The white robes disappeared into the gloom.
Aether lay on his back, staring up at the purple-gray sky.
The cold came first, seeping up from the dead beneath him and down from the open sky above. It seeped into the massive wound in his belly, into the stumps of his wrists, into the ruin of his legs. It filled the hollow space in his chest.
He tried to breathe, but his lungs were filling up.
I'm sorry.
The guilt was a physical weight, crushing him into the dirt. It was heavier than the corpses, heavier than the entire dead world. He saw their faces, one after the other, smiling, laughing, trusting him. He had promised to protect them. He had promised a different future.
I failed.
The sky began to darken at the edges, the gray fading to a deep, solid black that crept inward. The cold was everywhere now, inside his bones, in his blood. It was the only thing left.
His last sight was the uncaring void of the sky, and then even that was gone, swallowed by the spreading darkness.
Everything faded to black.