The air atop the Altar of the Ancients was thin and tasted of old copper. It was a massive, circular stone platform suspended over a bottomless void, illuminated only by the faint, rhythmic pulse of the Abyss itself. Malakor and Vane Zareth stood near the center, their silhouettes sharp against the gloom. They were laughing, a cold and hollow sound, as they wiped the grime from their blades, convinced they had finally disposed of their rivals.
A heavy, dragging sound echoed from the entrance of the chamber—the screech of steel against stone.
The brothers froze. Out of the swirling black mist emerged a nightmare. Azeal looked less like a Prince and more like a vengeful spirit. His armor was shredded, his chest a tapestry of deep, jagged claw marks from the dinosaur's fury. Blood soaked his tunic, turning the fabric into a dark, heavy weight. He was leaning heavily on his broadsword, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. But beside him stood Vaelora, her gaze like flint, her dagger held with a white-knuckled grip that promised no mercy.
"Impossible," Vane hissed, his sneer faltering for a split second before a cruel grin returned. "You should have died in that pit, Azeal. It would have been a kinder end than what I'm about to do to you."
Vane didn't wait for a parley. He was a creature of speed and malice. He lunged forward, his twin daggers spinning in his hands like deadly silver fans. At the same time, Malakor drew his heavy claymore, moving to intercept Vaelora.
"Don't touch her!" Azeal's voice was a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the altar.
The duel was a brutal display of contrast. Vane was healthy and fast, dancing around Azeal's labored movements. He landed a flurry of shallow cuts—on Azeal's thigh, his forearm, his cheek—mocking him with every strike. Azeal's vision was blurring from blood loss and the concussion he had sustained earlier, but every time he saw Vane glance toward Vaelora, a new surge of adrenaline forced his broken ribs to move.
"You're a corpse walking, brother!" Vane laughed, delivering a spinning kick directly into Azeal's shredded chest.
Azeal collapsed to one knee, a spray of crimson hitting the cold stone. Vane saw his opening. He turned away from the downed Prince, locking his eyes on Vaelora's back as she struggled to hold off Malakor's overwhelming strength.
"I think I'll keep the Princess alive for a while," Vane shouted over his shoulder. "Once you're dead, I'll show her what a real King looks like!"
He lunged toward Vaelora, his daggers aimed at her shoulders to pin her down.
In that heartbeat, the "Good Heart" of Azeal snapped. It didn't break—it ignited. The world turned a searing shade of gold in his eyes. The pain in his chest, the fire in his lungs, the weakness in his legs—it all vanished under the sheer weight of his protective fury.
Azeal didn't just stand; he exploded forward. He threw his massive broadsword with a desperate, two-handed heave. It didn't hit Vane, but it clattered against the stone right in front of him, forcing the younger Zareth to stumble back. That split second was all Vaelora needed. She spun, her Drazhin training taking over, and delivered a precise, bone-breaking kick to Vane's lead wrist.
Vane cried out as one of his daggers clattered into the abyss. Before he could recover, Azeal was on him. Weaponless and bleeding, Azeal tackled Vane with the force of a landslide. They crashed onto the Altar's edge. Azeal took hit after hit to the face, his lip splitting, his eye swelling shut, but he didn't let go. He pinned Vane's throat to the stone with one hand, his grip tightening like a vice.
"You... dared... to threaten her," Azeal rasped, his voice sounding like two gravestones grinding together.
With a final, desperate burst of strength, Azeal retrieved his sword from the floor. Vane scrambled backward, his arrogance replaced by a frantic, wide-eyed terror. He looked at Malakor for help, but Malakor was already backing away, seeing the monstrous aura radiating from Azeal.
"Azeal, wait! We are the same blood!" Vane pleaded, his voice cracking. "Don't do this!"
Azeal stood tall, the blood from his forehead dripping onto the blade of his sword. He looked at Vane not with hatred, but with the cold finality of a judge.
"Blood is a gift," Azeal said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "And you have spent yours on nothing but filth."
Azeal swung. It was a wide, cinematic arc that caught the dim light of the Abyss. The blade didn't just cut; it hammered through Vane's armor and bone. Vane stood frozen for a second, a look of pure, bewildered shock on his face, before his body slumped backward. He vanished over the edge of the Altar, his final scream swallowed by the infinite dark below.
Malakor stared at the empty space where his brother had stood. He looked at Azeal—covered in gore, wounded beyond belief, yet standing like an unbreakable god—and he felt a fear he had never known. Without a word, Malakor turned and fled into the dark tunnels, his footsteps echoing with the sound of a coward's retreat.
Azeal stood there for a moment, his sword point resting on the stone. Then, as the adrenaline finally drained away, his knees buckled. Vaelora was there in an instant, catching him before his head hit the ground.
"I've got you," she whispered, pulling his heavy, bloodied frame into her lap. "I've got you, Azeal."
He looked up at her, his breathing shallow, a small, tired smile touching his blood-stained lips. He had taken a life, and he was broken in body, but as he looked at her, he knew he had passed the only trial that truly mattered to him.