The battlefield burned beneath a sky of ash. The moon was swallowed by smoke, and the stars, once beacons of hope, hid behind a veil of darkness. Fires from broken siege towers crackled in the distance, painting the night in streaks of orange and red.Eldrin stood at the heart of the chaos, his sword drawn, its edge glowing faintly with the lingering enchantments placed upon it by the High Seer. His chest heaved with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with something fiercer than fatigue—resolve. Tonight would not be another battle of survival. Tonight, the hunt ended.Across the ruined courtyard, the Warlord emerged. His armor was black as midnight, engraved with runes that pulsed like veins of fire. His massive axe hung in his grip as if it weighed no more than a feather, though each swing could cleave stone. His presence alone silenced the clash of soldiers around them. Friend and foe alike felt it—the suffocating weight of two destinies colliding.“Eldrin,” the Warlord’s voice rumbled

Chapter 53 – The Council’s ChainsThe war room was lit only by firelight. Maps stretched across the oak table, pins and daggers marking battle lines that seemed to shift every time the wind howled through the cracked windows. Eldrin stood at the head, shoulders tense, while the remaining council members sat in a half-circle like vultures waiting for prey.The warlord had been pushed back, but not broken. His shadow still loomed over the fractured realm. Yet what unsettled Eldrin most was not the enemy outside the walls, but the men and women across from him.“Your obsession with the girl blinds you,” spat Lord Veynar, his silver beard trembling with anger. “Isolde is a distraction. A healer, yes, but nothing more. This kingdom bleeds while you our supposed champion—chase after a cursed witch.”The word cut like steel. Eldrin’s jaw clenched, the curse buried in his veins stirring as if in agreement. He wanted to rise, to drive his blade into the table and silence the sneer. Instead, he

The courtyard burned.Smoke and fire twisted in the air, a suffocating haze that turned night into a red-stained dawn. Men screamed, steel rang, but for Eldrin, all sound dimmed the instant the Warlord stepped through the shattered gates.He was a mountain in motion, black armor swallowing the torchlight, every step like the toll of a war drum. His blade, Gorath’s Fang, was forged not for finesse but ruin—broad, jagged, alive with a darkness that pulsed in rhythm with Eldrin’s own curse.The soldiers around Eldrin hesitated, their courage faltering as the Warlord’s presence pressed on their hearts. One man dropped his spear and ran. Another froze, unable to move. The tide of battle shifted in that single breath.Eldrin knew: if he faltered now, all was lost.He stepped forward, sword in hand, and the world seemed to still.“Warlord!” Eldrin’s voice cut through the clash of steel. “Your war ends here!”The armored giant tilted his head, as though studying a curious insect. Then, with a

The battlefield stank of blood, smoke, and broken steel. Ash drifted in the air like dying snow, coating the corpses that littered the ground. Eldrin staggered forward, his sword dragging a trail across the dirt, his breath ragged but his eyes still burning with stubborn fire.Every step reminded him of the weight he carriednot just the blade at his side, but the lives depending on him. His kingdom. Isolde. His oath to protect. Yet in his chest, the curse stirred again, coiling like a serpent hungry for release.“Eldrin!” Isolde’s voice cut through the haze. She was fighting her way toward him, her silver dagger flashing as she felled a soldier twice her size. Her face was smeared with grime, but her eyes still carried the same unshakable determination.For a brief moment, hope flickered. But then The warlord’s horn blared.From the smoke emerged the Warlord himself, mounted on a beast plated with iron, towering above the chaos. His axe dripped scarlet, and his gaze locked straight o

The battlefield was strangely quiet. The clash of steel, the cries of men, the roars of warhorses—gone, replaced only by the moaning wind drifting across the ruined plain. The Warlord’s body lay still at Eldrin’s feet, his massive blade shattered beside him like a broken crown.Eldrin stood over him, chest heaving, his sword dripping crimson. His hands trembled, not from exhaustion but from the curse. The black fire inside him pulsed violently, demanding more blood. Each heartbeat hammered against his skull as if it wanted to split him apart.“You’ve done it…” Isolde’s voice came, soft but edged with disbelief. She approached slowly, her armor dented, her braid loose from battle. Her eyes flicked from the corpse to Eldrin’s pale, strained face. “The Warlord is dead.”“Dead,” Eldrin repeated hoarsely. The word felt empty. Victory should have tasted like triumph, but instead, he tasted ash. He raised his sword slightly, staring at his reflection in the blood-slick steel. His eyes weren’