The armor waited where he’d left it.

  Blackened silver, etched with runes, its plates curled around five cores—each one pulsing with planar energy, condensed and restless. The hum it gave off was faint, but it pressed at the ribs.

  Lucian reached for it.

  “You’ll burn through your body before the hour ends.”

  The voice came from behind.

  Rethas flinched.

  Selenne turned. “Who—”

  She stood between them and the stairwell now. No one had seen her enter. No sound. No warning. She wore robes dark as thunderclouds, hair trailing in waves of copper and ink. Her smile wasn’t kind, or cruel—just present. And her eyes shimmered faintly with violet.

  Lucian didn’t look surprised. “Then I’ll have to end this in half that time.”

  She approached. Her hand touched the shoulderplate, slow, knowing.

  Rethas stepped back. “Who is—”

  “Rowana,” Selenne whispered.

  The name did something to the air. Rethas exhaled, shaky.

  Rowana helped him piece the armor on—one plate at a time, like a lover or a priest. Her movements were precise. Familiar.

  “You waited long enough,” she murmured.

  Lucian fastened the last gauntlet. “I was testing the field.”

  She stepped back, brushing dust from his shoulder. “You’ve seen enough.”

  He turned toward the edge of the platform.

  And jumped.

  The wind screamed. The impact shook the base of the tower.

  When the dust cleared, he stood in the heart of the chaos.

  Marelis’s constructs lunged—one tall as two men, its chest a glowing green twist of vine and crystal. Lucian moved once—his spear tore through it with a flash of violet and the creature shattered like overcooked glass.

  Two more came. He stepped between them.

  The first turned to ash.

  The second fell in halves.

  He didn’t stop.

  His steps melted footprints into the dirt. His spear didn’t cut—it carved, burned, and condensed. Every strike left residue in the air—planar vapor, drawn inward to his core chambers.

  At the top of the tower, Rowana watched him calmly, wind curling through her hair.

  Then her gaze drifted—not to Lucian, but to the field.

  To the glowing cores of the shattered constructs.

  Not violet.

  Pale green.

  Threaded, subtle, like veins across the exposed inner lattice. She tilted her head. Just slightly.

  One brow rose.

  “Interesting…” she said, almost to herself.

  Then she stepped off the tower’s edge.

  Dropped.

  No wind. No push. Just the fall—controlled, calm. She landed lightly beside Lucian, barely a sound.

  And walked. Following his path through the ruin, the hum of her presence warping the air in her wake.

  The two commanders stared in silence.

  No orders had been given.

  But they followed anyway, feet pounding the stairs behind her, breath short, blades drawn.

  Down below, Lucian moved like he owned the ground.

  The field around the tower—where once Marelis’s constructs had poured through—was quiet now. Burnt. Flattened.

  Steam hissed from broken cores. The pale green glow had dimmed.

  Lucian stood at the center, spear lowered, armor humming. Breathing slow. Controlled. Unshaken. The wind picked up. It caught the last embers—and swept them away.

  He straightened.

  The tide had stopped.

  Silence followed. Not peace.

  A pause.

  Then the wind changed.

  Sharper. Colder.

  Three shapes rode it down from the sky.

  Another storm had come.

  The wind came first.

  It twisted through the scorched field, cutting smoke into spirals, coiling above the wreckage.

  Then they dropped—three shapes riding the gust.

  Karin landed first.

  Boots hit blackened dirt. Her cloak flared. One hand was already raised—flame hovering above her palm, steady and silent like a held breath.

  Lucian turned.

  His armor clicked with faint pressure. Five planar cores glowed low along his back. His spear rested by his side, blade still hot with dying energy.

  He looked at her—not surprised. Just calculating.

  “Are these abominations yours?” he asked, his tone even. His gaze drifted across the broken remains of Marelis’s constructs.

  Karin didn’t answer that.

  “You killed Kivas. You killed Elsha. You burned Velgarth,” she said. Her flame flared. “Monster.”

  Lucian’s face didn’t move. “It was necessary.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “For what?”

  “To eradicate the gods.”

  The answer stunned her. “To… what?”

  The wind shrieked again—higher this time.

  Seethar descended next—light, slow, boots touching ground without sound. “Big dream, big boy,” he murmured.

  Elkinu followed.

  Not falling. Not flying. Just… arriving. The ground accepted his feet like the world pausing to breathe.

  Lucian’s gaze sharpened, colder. “You with the hypocrites now?”

  Before Karin could answer, the air behind Lucian shimmered.

  Rowana stepped through—slow and effortless, like mist deciding to have a shape. Her steps lazy, her smile too calm.

  “Oh, I’m hurt,” she said, fingers brushing Lucian’s arm. “Are you saying I’m one of them too?”

  Lucian didn’t answer.

  Karin frowned. Then a voice echoed within her—low, scorched.

  Aftree.

  “Where’s Laoh, huh? You nasty little thing. Backstabbing him now, are you?”

  Rowana looked toward the flame in Karin’s hand. Curious. Almost amused. Seethar laughed softly.

  Elkinu shrugged. “Family reunion?”

  No one responded.

  Not yet.

  Rowana crossed her arms. “And you, Anomaly One—still just watching? Is this creature yours?”

  Elkinu said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow. Another shrug.

  Lucian glanced across them all—Seethar lounging, Rowana watching like a flame in velvet, Elkinu disinterested—and then back to Karin.

  His voice lowered, heavier than before. “You think the gods are better?”

  He lifted a hand, no grand gesture—just a tilt of his wrist toward the battlefield: scorched earth, broken constructs, bodies still twitching in the heat.

  “They sit above all this. Start wars without lifting a blade. Push kingdoms like pieces on a board. Then call it balance.”

  Karin held his eyes. “And what does that make you?”

  Lucian’s answer came quiet. “The blade that cuts the board.”

  “You’ve slaughtered thousands.”

  “I did what they wouldn’t. What no one else dared. The cost is high—but freedom doesn’t come cheap. Not real freedom.”

  Her flame rose again. Brighter. Steadier. “You call this freedom?”

  He stepped closer. “I call it ending the cycle. Gods playing their games while mortals bleed. Kingdoms rise and fall for some divine theory.”

  He gestured again, this time to the gods around them. “They use us. Every one of them.”

  “And you’re not the same?” she snapped.

  Lucian didn’t blink. “I am the same. And that’s why I know what I have to do.”

  She stared, confused. He continued.

  “Yes, Rowana uses me. And yes—I use her in return. Her power, her favor. All of it. Because I will kill her too. I will kill every last one of them.”

  Rowana chuckled. A soft sound, curling like smoke.

  “Oh, he’s never lied about that,” she said. “That’s why I like him.”

  Lucian ignored her. His eyes were on Karin, steady and clear.

  “I don’t want a throne. I don’t want worship. I want an end. No more gods. No more divine interference. Mortals shaping their own world—with blood, with dirt, with truth.”

  Karin’s voice dropped to a knife’s edge. “And how many corpses will that truth need?”

  Lucian didn’t flinch. “As many as the gods have made. No more. No less.”

  Her flame hissed between her fingers.

  “You’re just dressing up genocide and calling it revolution.”

  “And you’re clinging to a leash because it feels familiar,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Wake up, girl. Look around. Rowana’s using me. Seethar’s using you. Elkinu doesn’t even care.”

  Seethar raised both hands. “Objection. Gross misrepresentation.”

  Rowana smiled again. “But he’s not wrong. Lucian and I… understand each other.”

  Lucian turned his gaze full on Karin again.

  “One last time. Join me. Help end it. Help tear it all down.”

  Her reply was barely above a whisper. “You’re insane.”

  But then—Elkinu moved.

  He walked slowly to the side and sat atop a fallen construct, folding one leg over the other.

  Karin turned, confused. “You’re not going to help?”

  Elkinu didn’t look up.

  Didn’t speak.

  Seethar shook his head. “You really misunderstood him, girl.”

  And Aftree’s voice rumbled from within her:

  “That one’s never on anyone side from the start.”

  Elkinu stretched—slow, almost satisfied.

  “Fight if you want,” he said. “I’ll watch. But please—make it interesting.”

  Rowana clicked her tongue, the edge of her smile fading.

  Seethar leaned against a half-buried beam, arms folded, like the whole affair wasn’t worth a single stretch of muscle.

  None of them would move.

  None of them would fight.

  Karin stared across the gods, the chaos they stood in—and saw nothing but distance behind every set of eyes.

  Lucian’s voice cut through the stillness. “See, girl? That’s what gods are. Idle. Detached. Selfish.”

  Seethar gave a soft laugh. “You don’t want this battlefield to become ours, believe me.”

  Karin turned back to Lucian. “I won’t side with a murderer.”

  The fire around her arms pulsed, coiled tight.

  Inside her, Aftree growled:

  “Cowards, all of them. Break him, girl. Burn it down—burn it all—but make it mean something.”

  She didn’t answer.

  But the flame on her arms surged—climbing, curling, alive.

  Lucian’s breath sharpened. His voice dropped to a near-whisper.

  “So be it.”

  Then he moved.

  And so did she.

  No signal. No hesitation.

  One cloaked in armor that drank death. The other wrapped in wildfire.

  They collided.

  And the sky cracked open with light.

  The ridge above the battlefield was quiet.

  Marelis stood near the edge, her frame outlined against rising smoke. Below, the clash of gods and demigods churned in chaos—flame and spear, the thunder of collisions. But none of it reached her.

  Around her, the constructs shifted softly—pale-threaded things of bone, bark, and blackened wood. They breathed without lungs. Watched without eyes. Still, but not still.

  Her gaze hung on the figure in the field—Lucian.

  It lingered.

  Too long.

  Then a voice flickered through her skull.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  She didn’t blink.

  “Hush, girl,” she murmured. “Keep it. Not your time yet.”

  No one else stood close. But the constructs stirred faintly, like trees adjusting to wind.

  Footsteps padded through the quiet.

  Grimoire stepped out from between the ranks, her face unreadable. Ysar followed, slower, hand on hilt, eyes moving like he didn’t trust the ground itself.

  Marelis didn’t turn. “You came far.”

  “You let us through,” Grimoire said.

  “Hmm?” Marelis tilted her head. “No. They did.” She waved vaguely to the constructs. “Must be the scent.”

  Ysar’s eyes narrowed. “What is all this?”

  She finally turned. Her expression wasn’t cruel or kind—just interested.

  “Study,” she said. “Discovery. I always assumed we needed blood, nerves, warm bodies to house a soul. Turns out—” she rapped a knuckle against the torso of a hulking humanoid beside her, “—you just need something close enough. Charred wood. Compressed ash. Resin. Even diamond. Tougher than bone. Doesn’t rot.”

  Grimoire stepped closer. “What’s your goal?”

  “My goal?” Marelis smiled, slow. “To not die. Isn’t that what we all want?”

  “That’s not mine,” Grimoire said flatly.

  “Oh, you were never a good student,” Marelis mused. “You died when you were six. Did you know that, Ysar?”

  He froze.

  “…What?” he breathed.

  “She was a sickly girl at birth,” Marelis continued, like reciting a recipe. “Tiny hands. Always cold. It was hard to keep her alive. Fever took her eventually. Died in my arms. And that’s when my planar binding experiments were ready for a proper test.”

  She looked at Grimoire again. “But what came back? That’s what I wonder. Is it really her? Or just something shaped like the girl I lost?”

  Grimoire didn’t flinch. “I’m still me.”

  “Of course you’d say that. Your planar wasn’t mixed. Not like mine.”

  She tapped her temple. “This one… this one’s messy. I feel things I never felt before. Regret. Hunger. Shame. I dream of the Azure Wind camp. Of laughter I never knew.”

  Her voice lowered. “Wasn’t mine. I never laughed like that.”

  Ysar’s face shifted.

  “She’s in there,” he said.

  “Maybe.” Marelis blinked. “Maybe I am her. Maybe we’re both gone. Maybe what’s left is just a clever echo.”

  Then she looked between them. “That’s the question, isn’t it? What is a self? A soul? Is it a rhythm of memory? A structure of planar? Or just persistence?”

  Her smile widened. “And if I shape multiple planar into the same mold, will they be the same person? Or will I become more than one?”

  Ysar’s hand slid from his hilt—but his voice came soft. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Of course I’m not,” she said brightly. “We’re beyond the edge of sense. That’s what makes it interesting.”

  Then she turned to Grimoire again. “But you came to stop me. Didn’t you?”

  Grimoire said nothing.

  “You should speak more, Grimoire.”

  Two more constructs stepped forward—taller than the rest, almost symmetrical in stance. More refined. Their silhouettes were humanlike, but wrong. Their frames were a patchwork—stone, sinew, bone, bits of animal muscle. Cores pulsed faintly beneath translucent plating.

  “These two,” Marelis said, admiringly, “were found dead near the forest. Still warm. I retained just enough of their planar structure to keep their shape mostly human. With some tweaks. They can think. Feel. Understand. But no speech—vocal cords would ruin the quiet. And I do love silence.”

  She tilted her head toward Ysar. “Shocking, isn’t it? What we can build from leftover souls and a bit of grief?”

  He stared. Cold rising behind his ribs.

  “You have to stop,” he said.

  She nodded, slowly. “I agree. But who’ll do it?”

  Grimoire stepped forward. “I will.”

  Marelis grinned.

  “I hoped you’d say that. Let’s see how you fare against my boys.”

  She snapped her fingers.

  The two constructs lunged.

  But a gust of wind slammed past Grimoire and Ysar, scattering ash.

  Two colors curled in its wake—blue and green.

  Clank.

  A blade pierced the first construct mid-charge. Right at its core. It froze, spasming.

  The second halted too, turning.

  A figure stood in the wind’s path—sword raised.

  Armor pale. Eyes bright with planar light.

  Zafran.

  The knight of Azure Rose.

  Green eyes locked on Marelis—on what used to be Elsha.

  His breath caught. His stance faltered.

  “Elsha…?”

  Marelis tilted her head.

  “Ah… this must be the one the girl cared for. Zafran, was it?” Marelis said, voice lilting.

  Her smile stretched—not Elsha’s. Not Marelis’s.

  Something else.

  “This is what the capital theatre should show,” she said, soft and delighted. “Not those boring fictions.”

  She laughed lightly. “Cheers.”

  And the constructs stilled around her, waiting for her next word.