The Commander

The battlefield lay silent, save for the distant cries of the wounded and the crackling of dying fires. Darven and his men stood among the fallen, their chests rising and falling as they caught their breath after the brutal clash. The enemy had been relentless, their numbers overwhelming, but in the end, the Stormbringer had turned the tide of battle.

Lightning still danced in the sky, remnants of the weapon's wrath. The ground was scorched where its power had struck, and the scent of rain mingled with the metallic tang of blood. Darven tightened his grip on the legendary blade, feeling its energy pulse beneath his fingertips. Without it, they would have been lost.

His men, weary but victorious, looked to him for guidance.

As the storm's fury settled and the echoes of battle faded, Darven's gaze fell upon a lone figure standing amidst the wreckage. Cloaked in white armor, the stranger had fought alongside them, wielding a power unlike anything Darven had ever seen. Lightning still crackled faintly around his fingertips, the remnants of the Stormbringer's might.

Darven stepped forward, his sword still in hand but lowered in cautious respect. His men watched in silence as he approached. The air felt heavier around the stranger, charged with an energy not entirely of this world.

Darven's voice was steady but filled with curiosity. "Are you part of the Holy Angels?"

The figure turned his gaze to Darven, his piercing eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. For a moment, he said nothing—only the wind answered, rustling through the remains of the battlefield.

Then, in a voice both calm and powerful, he replied…

"I am the commander of the holy angels."

His words sent a shiver down Darven's spine. The air around them still crackled with energy as if the battle had left a scar upon the very fabric of the world.

"The battle is over," the stranger said, looking up toward the heavens. "But your path is not yet complete."

A blinding flash erupted from the Stormbringer, and in an instant, Darven and his men felt lifted by an unseen force. The world blurred around them, twisting and bending as the storm's power enveloped them.

When the light faded, they stood in an entirely different place.

Gone was the blood-soaked battlefield. Instead, they found themselves in the heart of a magnificent city—its streets paved with gleaming stone, its towers stretching high into the sky. The scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers replaced the stench of war. Merchants called out their wares, and people bustled about, unaware of the warriors who had just appeared among them.

One of Darven's men let out a breath of disbelief. "Where… are we?"

Darven tightened his grip on the Stormbringer.

"The city of Tristan," he murmured. "The heart of prosper

As they appeared in the city, a crowd gathered around them. 

At first, the city remained oblivious to Darven and his warriors, their chant echoing only among themselves. But then, a ripple of energy spread through the air, a whisper of power carried on the wind. One by one, the people of Tristan paused—merchants halted their bargaining, children stilled in their play, and nobles turned their heads as if hearing a call from the heavens.

Then, as if guided by unseen hands, they, too, began to chant.

"Stormbringer! Stormbringer! Bearer of the skies! Master of the tempest!"

The chant rolled like thunder through the city, growing louder with each voice that joined. From the towering spires to the crowded markets, Tristan became a chorus of devotion. Windows flung open, priests in golden robes emerged from grand temples, and even the city guard removed their helmets, bowing their heads as they spoke the name of the Stormbringer in reverence.

Darven stood at the center of it all, his heart pounding. This was no ordinary city—Tristan had not forgotten the Stormbringer. 

The chanting of the people echoed through the grand city of Tristan, their voices rising in waves of reverence. The name of the Stormbringer filled the streets, rolling like distant thunder. Darven felt the weight of history pressing upon him, the energy of the storm swirling around him.

Then, without warning, the Stormbringer in his grasp began to tremble. A surge of power coursed through the blade, arcs of lightning crackling along its edge. The glow intensified, its brilliance forcing those nearby to shield their eyes.

Darven tightened his grip. "Wait..." he murmured as if trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers.

I hope I get to see him again.

But the Stormbringer had other plans.

With a deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning struck, and in an instant, he was gone—ripped from his grasp, dissolving into a cascade of white-hot energy. The light streaked upward, vanishing into the churning storm above. The sky rumbled in response, the heavens reclaiming what had always belonged to them.

As the crowd began to disappear

Daven ordered his men to the temple to offer the star steel as a tribute.