The portal still gapes wide, a hungry wound in the night. The void spills its horrors into my kingdom.
And I am the void.
I command it. I walk with the darkness, and it knows my name.
Daedalus Phaedren. The favored son.
They will heed me.
I raise my hand to the night and summon Death Singer back to me. The blade bleeds into existence, smoke curling like serpents along its edge. My voice rolls from me, thunder cracking across the dark.
“Return to the void. Your prince commands you.”
The beating of leathered wings, the scrape of claws on stone, fall into silence.
They turn to me. Blazing eyes. Crooked mouths. Teeth like shards of a nightmare. They listen.
One by one, they obey.
Quietly, calmly, they step into the darkness, vanishing like shadows at dawn. The flying horrors wheel overhead, weaving, diving, gliding down into the abyss until only the Fae remain.
I lower Death Singer’s tip toward the portal. Will it closed and it obeys. The tear seals shut, the last flicker of creation gone, as if it had never been.
The world exhales. Ragged breaths rasp through the air, followed by the clatter of steel striking stone. The Mor’Thravar Fae sink to their knees, heads bowed.
I accept their surrender.
Zyphoro lands lightly on the black stone, her gaze sharp as she circles me. Her hand comes to my cheek, her eyes searching mine as if she could sift through every shadow in my soul.
“You are not alone in there, brother,” she murmurs.
I incline my head. “He is an aspect of me now. I feel him. But his soul is mine to wield.”
Her chin lifts. “Then let us use it to take back the Sundered Kingdoms and burn An’kel to ash.”
We clasp forearms.
I have never been the master of my curse. It has ruled me, driven me to horrors I can never erase, stolen the things I loved most. Zyphoro has hated me for it. Pitied me for it. She has never been shackled to the void’s will. She wields it, yes, but it has never been her master. That was why they locked her away: because she could not be controlled.
Does that make her stronger than me? How can it not?
But now… the way she looks at me is not as she once did. Not as a slave. Not as a puppet. Not as some pathetic instrument of a demon god.
She looks at me as if, for the first time, her burden might finally be lifted.
Orios and Reon come forward, cautious, but they bow all the same.
“Baev’kalath is ours, but I don’t for a moment believe all our Blades are lost. Tear through the fortress.”
Orios slams a fist to his chest. “Yes, Rook.”
I nod toward Zyphoro. “Round up the Mor’Thravar Fae. If they want to live, they’ll wear the Mordorin mark.”
Her eyes flicker, and she inclines her head. “As you command, brother.”
I grip Reon’s shoulder. “We need to find Amara. Tell her it’s safe.”
My wings spread wide, smoke and shadow unraveling like dark silk in the rain. Reon’s gaze slides to them, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
