Chapter 44
The wind howled across the battlefield, thick with the scent of blood and burnt ozone. Elara’s breaths came sharp and fast, her pulse pounding in her ears as she sprinted up the ridge, Leon at her side. Behind them, the battle raged—shouts of warriors, the clash of steel, the unholy snarls of the undead. But all of it blurred against the singular focus that now gripped her.
Draven.
He stood atop the highest peak, cloaked in shadows, watching the destruction unfold below with cold amusement. The moon illuminated his figure, casting eerie light against the dark armor that clung to his frame like a second skin. His eyes—void-black and endless—locked onto hers the moment she reached the summit.
“Elara.” His voice rolled like distant thunder, quiet but carrying through the chaos. “You’ve come a long way.”
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword, knuckles white. “This ends tonight.”
Draven tilted his head, as if amused by the conviction in her voice. “You still believe that, don’t you?” He lifted a hand, fingers curling. The battlefield behind them trembled, and the fallen warriors—both friend and foe—twitched, dark energy seeping into their bodies.
A fresh wave of the dead surged to their feet.
Elara’s stomach twisted. He was growing stronger.
Leon stepped closer, sword raised. “You’re playing with forces you don’t understand.”
Draven let out a low chuckle. “And yet, I’m the one winning.”
The ground beneath them cracked, dark veins of energy slithering outward like a living entity. Shadows twisted at Draven’s feet, pulsing, waiting.
Elara exhaled sharply, steadying herself. No hesitation. No fear.
With a burst of speed, she lunged.
\---
The Battle for the Summit
Steel met darkness.
Draven’s blade was in his hand in an instant, meeting Elara’s strike with a deafening clash. Sparks flew as their swords collided, magic rippling through the air. She pushed forward, using all her strength, but he barely budged, smirking as if toying with her.
“Stronger than before,” he mused. “But still not enough.”
Elara gritted her teeth and twisted, breaking free of his hold before striking again—this time aiming low. Draven dodged with inhuman speed, his counterattack forcing her back.
Leon was beside her in a flash, his sword cutting through the air in a deadly arc. Draven blocked, but the force made him shift, his boots scraping against the stone.
For the first time, his smirk faltered.
Leon didn’t let up. He moved like lightning, each strike relentless, calculated. Elara matched his rhythm, pressing Draven from both sides.
Draven snarled. Shadows surged from his fingertips, tendrils of darkness lashing out. Elara barely dodged in time, rolling to the side as the black energy cracked the ground where she had stood.
Leon wasn’t so lucky.
One tendril coiled around his arm, dark energy seeping into his skin. He gasped, staggering as if the life was being drained from him.
“Elara—”
Rage flared hot in her chest. Without thinking, she struck at the tendril, severing it with a flash of her magic-infused blade. Leon dropped to one knee, breathing heavily, but alive.
Draven exhaled in mock disappointment. “And here I thought you’d last longer.”
Elara’s vision blurred with fury. She called upon her magic, light crackling around her.
Draven raised a brow. “That’s more like it.”
Then, with a wave of his hand, the sky split open.
\---
A Past That Never Left
A roar of energy erupted, forcing Elara to stumble back. She had seen this before. The last time Draven had done this—when he had first unleashed his power upon her home—it had left nothing but ruin.
The memory was vivid, seared into her mind.
She had been young, barely strong enough to lift a sword, but she had still stood in front of her people, trying to fight back. Trying to stop the devastation. She remembered the cold grip of shadows wrapping around her throat, the mocking whisper of Draven’s voice in her ear.
“Fate doesn’t favor the weak.”
The village had burned that night. Her people had screamed. And Elara had lost everything.
Now, standing before him once more, the rage that had fueled her all these years roared to life.
Never again.
She surged forward.
\---
The Tides Turn
Draven moved to counter, but this time, Elara was faster.
She ducked under his strike, spinning into a low slash that caught him across the side. He hissed, staggering slightly, the first real hit she had landed on him.
Leon recovered, forcing himself up, and together, they advanced.
Draven’s composure cracked. His strikes became wilder, more desperate, the shadows flickering uncertainly around him.
Elara saw her opening.
With a burst of magic, she feigned left before pivoting, driving her blade toward his heart—
But at the last moment, he vanished.
The momentum nearly sent her stumbling forward. She whirled around, heart hammering.
He was gone.
Only the lingering remnants of his dark energy remained.
Leon wiped blood from his jaw, scanning the area. “Coward.”
Elara exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself. She wanted to scream, to curse, to demand why he had run.
But then—
A slow, mocking clap echoed through the air.
She turned.
There, on a ledge above them, stood a woman in deep crimson robes—the same one she had seen earlier, raising the dead.
She smiled, tilting her head. “That was fun.”
Elara’s stomach dropped.
Draven hadn’t run.
He had been summoning something.
And now, it was here.
\---
The ground beneath them trembled.
A shadow—a presence vast and ancient—unfurled across the battlefield.
Elara gripped her sword tighter, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
Leon stepped closer, eyes narrowed. “What now?”
Elara swallowed hard.
The final battle hadn’t begun yet.
It had only just been unleashed.