A Crown of Grief

Three days had passed since Hiller's light had vanished from the world. Three days since the Rift had sealed, sparing the Supreme Realm and humanity from annihilation. But for Malakai, the weight of salvation meant nothing compared to the emptiness that consumed him.

He stood alone in the chambers they once shared, his hands resting on the edge of a polished obsidian table. Hiller's medallion, still faintly glowing, sat before him. Its light had been a steady companion since that fateful day, but it felt like a cruel mockery, a reminder of a promise that seemed so impossibly far away.

The room was suffused with silence, the kind that felt oppressive rather than peaceful. The scent of Hiller still lingered faintly in the air, a mix of cedarwood and the faint metallic tang of his armor. Malakai inhaled deeply, as though breathing in the memory of his soulmate would make the ache in his chest less unbearable.

But nothing did.