The summit had become a vortex of opposing realities. On one side, Draeven Zareth stood as the embodiment of decay, his purple lightning tearing through the air; on the other, Vaelora shone with the radiant, unfiltered brilliance of the ancient Soltheran bloodline.
The daggers in Vaelora's hands weren't just weapons anymore—they were conductors for the massive reservoir of magic she had kept locked deep within her heart. Every time she swung, the air hummed, carving glowing golden scars into the very atmosphere.
"You think your light can save him?" Draeven shrieked, swinging his staff in a wide arc. A wave of dark matter, dense and heavy like molten tar, rolled toward Vaelora.
She didn't retreat. She planted her feet, arched her back, and slammed her daggers into the ground. A pillar of concentrated starlight erupted from beneath her, creating a dome of impenetrable gold energy. The dark matter collided with her barrier and dissipated with a sickening hiss, like water hitting a forge.
Vaelora didn't give him a moment to recover. She leaped from the dome, twisting mid-air, and unleashed a torrent of golden projectiles—manifested starlight shards—that rained down upon Draeven like a meteor shower.
Draeven roared, raising his staff to deflect the barrage, but he was overwhelmed. The shards bypassed his defenses, slicing through his dark robes and cutting deep, glowing gashes into his obsidian-plated armor. He was forced back, stumbling toward the edge of the altar, his dark magic flickering and fading under the intensity of Vaelora's assault.
"The power... how do you have so much?" Draeven gasped, his confidence finally cracking. His eyes searched her, looking for the source, but he was too blinded by his own malice to see the truth. He saw a princess, but he failed to see the Sovereign.
"It is not mine," Vaelora stated, her voice echoing with the authority of every queen who had worn the crown before her. "It is the memory of everyone you have murdered. And it is done with you."
She moved again, her speed becoming nearly impossible to track. She feinted left, forcing Draeven to overextend, then drove a dagger straight into his shoulder. The golden light surged through the wound, searing the dark sorcery right out of his veins. Draeven let out a guttural, inhuman howl as his arm went limp, his staff clattering to the icy ground.
But Draeven Zareth was a creature of pure spite. As Vaelora raised her other dagger for a killing blow, he spat a glob of caustic black bile at her face. She jerked her head back, momentarily blinded, and in that split second of distraction, Draeven lunged forward.
He didn't use his staff. He used a hidden, jagged blade of shadow he had kept concealed in his sleeve. He drove it forward, aiming for her stomach.
Vaelora gasped as the cold steel pierced her side, the pain white-hot and agonizing. She staggered back, the golden light around her flickering, and she dropped to her knees, clutching her wound as dark, corrupted blood began to seep between her fingers.
Draeven let out a jagged, blood-choked laugh, standing over her once more. "A hero's death is always so... predictable."
He raised his foot, ready to crush her skull, but his eyes suddenly darted toward the ground. His own staff lay near him, but the obsidian was cracking, the dark energy inside it struggling to hold its form. He realized with a sinking horror that Vaelora's strike hadn't just wounded him—it had poisoned his connection to the dark realm.
The tide of the battle was turning, but both of them were reaching their breaking point. Vaelora, though severely wounded, looked up at him with eyes that burned brighter than the sun. She wasn't defeated yet. She was just getting started.