The Veinforged general stood before Asher—close to ten feet tall, though he moved with the calm poise of someone who had nothing left to prove. Not hulking. Not brutish. Just… precise.
His frame was lean but sculpted, like a weapon built for elegance and ruin. His movements were fluid in that way only predators moved—quiet, deliberate, waiting to strike.
His armor wasn’t forged. It had grown.
Blackened bone. Warped metal. Slivers of long-dead gods twisted into a living exoskeleton. Ribcage and celestial stone curved across his body like a shell, pulsing faintly with power that didn’t belong in this world.
But it was his face that stopped everything.
Or rather, the mask.
Smooth porcelain. White as ash. Constantly shifting. One second, it wore a serene smile. The next, heartbreak. Then fury. Then nothing at all. It changed like thought, like memory unraveling in real time.
When he spoke, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
His voice slid through the tunnel like silk over glass—soft, unhurried, and impossible to ignore. Each word came wrapped in something venomous and intimate. Like a secret no one should hear.
Even the Void leaned in to listen.
“Hello, Veinforged King. Champion of Aetheros. Savior of this world.”
His words oozed sarcasm, slow and poisonous. He dipped into a mock bow, the picture of contemptuous grace.
“You’ve come far, forcing one of us to intervene directly. But it was the moment you believed you could launch another campaign against us—that was when you doomed yourself… and your whore.”
Asher heard nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. His golden arm twitched—glowing with barely contained fury. The Core pulsed inside him like a storm with no sky to scream into.
Brynn was gone.
And Asher wasn’t himself anymore.
His voice broke the silence like a hammer striking divine stone.
Void seeped from the cracks in his skin. Blood ran freely—down his arms, his face—and then, impossibly, healed. Aether wove itself over flesh in radiant threads, knitting him back together like time reversed just for him.
His eyes lit up. Bright. Blinding.
All Aether answered his call. Fire’s wrath. Wind’s speed. Earth’s strength. Water’s flow. And the Void’s impossible hunger.
Not magic. Being.
“You dare mock me,” Asher growled, “after taking my queen? You call her a whore—while you stand there? This thing?”
He stepped forward.
“I’ll erase you. If I have to crawl across glass on shattered bone, with blood pouring from my mouth—I’ll still find you.”
His voice rose.
“If I’m the last soul on this godsdamned world—I will still find you. I will enter your world. And I will burn it. I will wipe out your entire kind. Until there’s nothing left but dust and silence.”
The ground buckled beneath him. The air rippled. Matter twisted.
He wasn’t casting a spell.
He was rewriting reality.
The general laughed—a low, cold, detached thing.
“Oh, will you now, little king? You’ll eliminate us?”
The laughter stopped.
“You child. You arrogant insect. I’ll erase you here and now, so your stench no longer offends me. You face something far older than your gods. Let me show you what that means.”
He raised a hand.
But Asher was already moving.
Sylthara. Take him.
The thought sliced through the bond like lightning.
A shadow peeled away behind the general—Sylthara, eyes glowing, blades of pure malice drawn.
She was a ghost. A whisper. A killing stroke.
But the general turned.
He didn’t react.
He was already facing her.
As if time bent around his awareness.
His hand lashed out like a god's verdict, catching her mid-strike. Her bones cracked.
She gasped—and vanished.
Reappearing beside Asher, cradling her shattered arm.
She was breathing hard.
“Master… he’s—” she winced, voice ragged, “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
Asher didn’t turn to her.
“Return to Aetherhold,” he said. “Help the defenders. Stay with Vicky. At all times.”
Sylthara’s voice cracked. “Please. I can fight. Don’t face this alone—”
He looked at her then. His gaze was iron.
“Sylthara… am I your master?”
She froze. Tears filled her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You are my everything, Master…”
“Then go. Trust my judgment. I can’t protect you—from him, or from myself. Go.”
She vanished into shadow before he finished the sentence.
But her heart stayed.
And just once, as she ran, she looked back toward the battlefield.
Come back… she thought. Please… come back.
The general spread his arms slightly.
“Ah. Good. Now the fun begins.”
The mask split into a slow smile.
“I’ll admit, Aetherking… it’s impressive, how stubborn you are. We really thought killing that little witch would break you. But here you are. Whole. Focused. Even now.”
He cocked his head, amused.
“You irk me. Can’t you just give in? You’re already halfway gone. Just… become the beast. Join the inevitability.”
Asher’s laugh came sharp. Bitter. Brutal.
Then it stopped cold.
“Shut your filthy fucking mouth, you abomination.”
The Void exploded.
Spikes of blackened earth, wrapped in Aether, ripped through the ground like divine fangs.
Asher walked forward, slow and inevitable. Fire burst from beneath him. Magma followed. Wind screamed.
He charged.
The spears struck the general.
And shattered.
The thing didn’t flinch.
Asher met him in melee. Blades flashing. Fists pounding with divine fury. But the general matched him—blow for blow—his massive arms swatting aside attacks like toys.
Still, Asher pressed harder.
The Core spun in his chest—now so fast it created gravity. Debris lifted. Stones circled. The very air burned.
He roared—hurling himself back into the fray. Slashing. Twisting. Dodging. Driving his fury forward.
The general moved differently now—not to kill. To observe.
To measure.
And Asher, in the midst of the storm, understood.
This wasn’t a duel.
It was a test.
And the general wasn’t even trying yet.
For the first time in years—Asher felt it.
Fear.
Not the kind that whispers. The kind that devours.
His blade struck again and again—flashes of silver and flame, honed by gods and blood-soaked fields. He moved like vengeance incarnate.
And the general?
Still.
Unmoved.
The air shifted.
A finality settled in Asher’s chest. Cold. Crushing.
“All right, Aetherking,” the thing murmured, bored now. “I see your strength… and I am disappointed.”
One hand lifted.
And the world bent.
Not metaphorically—literally. Space itself twisted. Reality warped like glass under fire.
Then came the whisper:
“Taste true fear, little king.”
Darkness spread.
Not shadow.
Not the absence of light.
Nothingness.
A devouring void that consumed the world in a breath. The tunnel vanished. The earth was gone. The general was gone.
There was no sound.
No weight.
No wind.
No Asher.
It felt like being sealed inside the soul of death itself.
He tried to breathe. Move. Speak.
But even Aether wouldn’t answer here.
The Core flickered violently, power draining with every heartbeat. Cracks formed in its glow. Only the Void stayed with him—resisting. Barely. It understood this silence. It belonged here.
And then—came the laugh.
Not outside.
Inside.
Through him.
Through the bones of his soul.
“Now, little king…” the general whispered. His voice slid through Asher’s ribs like a rusted blade. “You’ve fallen into a hole you can’t escape. This is where you die. Where I drain you dry. Where even the Void stops wanting you.”
Asher staggered.
Vision swimming.
“I can’t wait,” the thing cooed, “to watch your face when you realize it. That everything you did… meant nothing. That every sacrifice, every scream in your name—was a lie.”
Then the mask appeared in the dark.
Glowing sickly green. Inches from him.
Smiling.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Too wide.
Too human.
Too wrong.
The laughter returned.
Faster.
Choking on its own joy. Like a machine going mad.
Asher froze.
Not because he lacked strength.
Because, for the first time…
He didn’t know what to do.
He dropped.
Not by choice—his knees just gave. Hands shaking. Heart crashing.
The silence roared.
The mask loomed.
The laughter echoed.
And for the first time since Brynn died…
Asher did not move.
Miles away, under a bleeding sky, the world was losing.
Ash-black clouds churned over the ruined city, lit from beneath by firelight and the last dying pulses of broken wards. The air stank of scorched steel, cracked Aether, and blood.
And the screaming had thinned.
Not because the Veinforged had stopped killing.
But because there were fewer left to scream.
Vicky fought like fury made flesh.
Her sword carved arcs through bone and steel, every swing honed with purpose. Each kill was surgical. Every breath she took, earned.
Her armor was cracked. Dented. Streaked with blood.
Her blood. Their blood. It didn’t matter anymore.
“Fall,” she snarled, slicing through a brute’s throat. It gurgled and dropped, and she was already turning for the next.
Around her, the line buckled. Dravyn was gone—last seen charging into the eastern breach. The western ramparts were burning. The College wards had flickered... and failed.
Aetherhold was dying.
And Brynn was gone.
That truth pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath her ribs.
Not grief.
Not yet.
Just weight.
Then—a pulse of shadow.
Vicky spun, sword raised.
Sylthara stepped from the smoke, cradling her ruined arm, robes torn, blood streaking her face.
But her eyes—those sharp, lethal eyes—were filled with something Vicky had never seen in her before.
Terror.
Vicky lowered her blade a fraction. “Where is he?”
Sylthara didn’t hesitate.
“He sent me away,” she rasped. “Ordered me to return. To protect you. To protect the city.”
Her voice broke as she spoke.
“I begged to stay. He wouldn’t let me.”
Vicky’s jaw clenched. She didn’t look away.
“He’s fighting one of them,” Sylthara went on. “Not like the others. A general. One of the old ones.”
She swallowed hard.
“It doesn’t move like a monster. It moves like it’s already won. Like it knows how this ends.”
“And it wants him,” she finished. “Not dead. Changed.”
Ash drifted down like snow. A ward cracked in the distance.
Vicky didn’t blink.
She stepped forward and placed a hand gently on Sylthara’s good shoulder.
“You’re in command now.”
Sylthara froze. “What?”
“Find Aetheros. Rally the mages. Hold the line.”
“Vicky, no—what are you—”
“I’m not letting him face that thing alone.”
Then Vicky turned.
Her legs coiled.
Aether flared at her feet.
And she was gone.
A shockwave blasted from where she stood, stone cracking, fire scattering. She launched into the sky like a falling star in reverse—fire and wrath trailing behind her like wings.
She didn’t know what she’d find at the end of the tunnel.
But it didn’t matter.
He was hers.
And no god, no general, no Void-damned abomination—was going to take him.
Darkness reigned.
It pressed in from all sides—formless, breathless, infinite.
Asher didn’t know if he was standing, kneeling, or floating.
He felt nothing.
He was nothing.
Only the mask remained.
Grinning.
Flickering.
That hideous green glow, twitching with madness.
But then—
Light.
A pinprick.
Then a flare.
Then a star.
Asher squinted through the void as the brilliance surged. Not fire. Not magic. Aether, raw and undiluted, roaring into existence like a newborn sun.
It didn’t burn.
It breathed.
And the Void screamed.
The darkness shattered.
Asher hit the ground like a falling god.
Stone cracked beneath him. Dust rose in clouds. His lungs seized—then filled with air for the first time in what felt like centuries.
The tunnel was gone—blown open in a gaping wound of light and ruin.
He coughed, vision blurred.
And then he saw her.
Vicky.
Alive.
Bloodied. Breathing. Standing like the last wall between the world and the abyss.
Her sword was drawn—both hands gripping the hilt. Her stance low. Balanced.
Her armor scorched and battered. Her face streaked with blood.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were fixed on the darkness.
Not on him.
On it.
Asher tried to speak. His voice rasped like gravel.
“…Vicky?”
She didn’t blink.
“Get up,” she said. “We’re not finished.”
Tears carved lines down his face—hot, silent, unstoppable.
He reached for her.
She stopped him.
Her hand pressed to his chest, firm. Unyielding.
“My king,” she said. “The battle isn’t over.”
She met his gaze with fire.
“There will be time to grieve. But not now. Now, we fight.”
Her voice rose.
“You are Asher Veinheart. The Aetherking. Champion of Aetheros.”
Her hand tightened.
“And Brynn… is watching.”
Something inside him cracked.
Not grief.
Resolve.
The kind that comes when there’s no illusion left. No future to cling to. No path but forward through fire.
The kind of strength born from loss.
The kind that makes kings.
His spine straightened.
His eyes blazed.
And his voice rose—not as a man, but as a truth.
The tunnel shook.
Then the mountain.
Then the world.
His voice tore across Aetherhold like divine thunder—warrior-born and god-bound.
“Warriors. Mages. Citizens. My generals. My friends.”
It echoed across burning towers, into the shattered spires, through ash-filled air.
“Your king now stands against the heart of darkness. I do not face it alone. I face it with you.”
The Core ignited within his chest—glowing like a second sun. His golden arm lifted, pulsing with light.
“Steel your wills. Raise your weapons. And PUSH BACK this corruption with every breath you have left.”
The stone cracked.
Magic flared.
He shouted louder.
“I will bring devastation upon our enemies. I will break their gods. I will tear the rot from this world. But I need my people.”
He saw them, in his mind’s eye—every one of them.
“Raise your voices. Raise your blades. Let the enemy see our rage. Let them feel the vengeance of a people who refuse to kneel.”
Aether surged around him, wild and free.
“Bring your king justice… for his queen.”
And across Aetherhold—
it was heard.
Aetheros hovered above the College’s shattered bridge, her robes swirling in the updraft of crumbling magic. Divine light bled from her fingertips as she held a half-collapsing barrier in place—barely shielding the last line of mages.
And then she heard him.
The king’s voice.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth parted.
“He’s still fighting,” she whispered, reverent.
Not surprised.
Proud.
Beside her, Sylthara emerged from the smoke like vengeance unchained. Her arm was healing, slowly. Her robes torn. Her breath ragged.
But when she heard Asher’s voice—
She stopped.
For a single heartbeat, her eyes closed.
“I hear you, Master,” she breathed.
Then louder, sharper, her voice slicing through the chaos like a blade:
“FORM RANKS! HOLD THE LINE! FOR OUR KING!”
The soldiers surged to her side.
Behind her, the broken became brave.
In the blood-soaked east, Dravyn stood over a heap of Veinforged corpses, his scimitars dripping fire and fury. His armor was cracked. His beard singed. Blood smeared down his cheek like warpaint.
Asher’s voice hit him like a punch to the heart.
Dravyn laughed—loud, broken, glorious.
“You bastard,” he spat, grinning through blood. “You never stay dead.”
He turned to what remained of his warband and raised his blades high.
“DRIVE THEM BACK! FOR THE QUEEN!”
And they did.
On the northern front, Jorven Icetide was a storm in the flesh. Veinforged froze mid-lunge, shattering under the weight of his magic. His glaive cracked the earth like a drumbeat.
And then the voice came.
Asher’s voice.
He stopped—just long enough to listen.
Then lifted his glaive high, frost crawling up his arms.
“Frostborn—DO YOU HEAR HIM?!”
A thunderous roar answered.
“Then show them the wrath of the north!”
And the frozen tide rolled forward.
Deep in the shadows, Elara ‘Whisper’ Neryn crouched above a fresh kill. Her daggers dripped. Her chest rose and fell in silence.
Then she heard it.
Asher’s cry.
She closed her eyes. Once.
“…For his queen,” she whispered.
She stood. She ran.
The next neck she slit never saw her coming.
On the high College balcony, Lunira gripped a too-heavy sword with shaking hands.
She was alone.
Everything she loved was breaking.
But then—as if the stars themselves remembered her—
She heard him.
She gasped. Choked.
Tears fell.
And she stood straighter.
The blade still trembled. But she held it tighter.
“I knew you’d come back,” she whispered. “I’ll wait. Just a little longer. Just until you win.”
Near the eastern wall, Varkos stood knee-deep in bodies, his halberd gleaming through blood and fire. His golden cloak was torn. His face streaked red.
He froze as Asher’s voice shattered the sky.
Then he smiled.
For the first time in years.
He spit, rolled his shoulders, and lifted his halberd.
“YOU HEARD YOUR KING! BURN YOUR DOUBTS! SHARPEN YOUR HATE!”
His men turned.
“This isn’t about thrones anymore. It’s about vengeance!”
And they followed him into the breach.
In the blazing southern streets, Tormund Blackfang was already laughing.
One eye swollen shut.
Axe slick with gore.
“Sing for me, you ugly bastards!” he roared, carving two more down in a single swing.
Then came the voice.
That voice.
His laughter stopped. Just for a second.
He looked to the sky.
“Still breathin’, eh lad?” he muttered. “Knew you were too stubborn to die.”
He lifted his axe.
“YOU HEAR THAT?! THAT’S YOUR KING!”
He turned, wild and feral.
“NOW PICK UP YER GODSDAMNED STEEL AND KILL SOMETHIN’!”
At the ruined forge just outside the old plaza, Kaelen was dragging wounded toward the triage tents. His once-polished armor was dented and ash-caked. His knuckles bled.
When the cry echoed across the city, he paused—midstride, heart pounding.
He set the soldier down gently.
Then stood.
He touched the rune carved into his hammer.
“For Brynn,” he whispered.
Then louder—fierce and sure:
“For our king!”
And with a roar, he turned toward the front lines.
Back beneath the earth—
The tremors reached them.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the tunnel floor. Stone hissed with steam. The Core thrummed in Asher’s chest like a war drum.
And from the blackened void ahead…
He emerged.
Mal’kareth.
Not walking. Drifting.
Like reality bent to let him pass.
The mask still grinned.
“You both came,” he said, voice syrup-slow. “How... poetic.”
Asher didn’t reply.
Vicky stepped beside him—shoulder to shoulder.
Her sword glowed. Crimson. Alive.
Threads of Aether wove around her like dancing fire.
Asher raised his hand.
Vicky lifted her blade.
Their power met.
Light and flame. Will and wrath. Aether surged between them in a burst of silver and scarlet. The tunnel couldn’t contain it.
The shadows recoiled.
Their fury—their bond—their love—
Became a weapon.
A blade forged between them.
Mal’kareth stepped forward.
And Asher’s voice rang out like thunder:
“Together.”
Vicky nodded.
“Until the end.”
They moved.
One will.
One charge.
Two titans against the dark.
