The Last Stand

The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and steel. Dozens of cloaked warriors surged toward them, their masked faces unreadable, their weapons gleaming in the torchlight.

Tharion's heart pounded. His body still crackled with the remnants of golden energy, but he had no time to think about what the Warden had called him—the Heir of the Forgotten Throne.

Right now, all that mattered was survival.

"Ceyla, stay close!" he shouted.

She didn't need to be told twice. With an arrow already nocked, she loosed the first shot, striking one of the advancing warriors in the throat. He crumpled without a sound, but three more took his place.

Tharion braced himself. Then they were upon him.

A Battle Against the Tide

The first attacker swung a curved blade at Tharion's side. He sidestepped, parrying with a sharp twist of his glowing sword. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed. The moment the enemy staggered, Tharion drove his blade forward, piercing through cloth and flesh.

Another came from behind. Tharion ducked, spinning low, slicing at the warrior's legs. The enemy collapsed with a pained grunt, but before Tharion could finish him, a heavy mace came swinging toward his ribs.

Ceyla's arrow struck the wielder mid-swing, forcing the attack to veer off course.

"Don't die on me now!" she called, already drawing another arrow.

Tharion exhaled sharply, shifting his stance. The masked warriors weren't just attacking blindly—they were testing him, feeling out his abilities.

They weren't just here to kill him.

They were here to capture him.

A Desperate Gamble

Ceyla was holding her own, picking off targets with uncanny precision, but there were too many. The warriors were pressing forward, forcing them back step by step.

"We can't win this!" she shouted.

Tharion blocked another strike, his arms trembling from exertion. He hated to admit it, but she was right. They were running out of space—running out of time.

His gaze flickered to the prisoners, still bound near the campfire. If they fell here, who would save them?

Tharion clenched his jaw. No. We don't die here.

Then, an idea formed.

"Ceyla!" he shouted, dodging a spear thrust. "Do you trust me?"

She loosed another arrow. "Now's a terrible time to ask that!"

"Just answer me!"

She growled. "Fine! Yes! Why?"

"Because I'm going to do something insane."

Unleashing the Unknown

Tharion didn't fully understand his power. It had saved him before, and it had destroyed his enemies. But what if he pushed it further?

What if he let it consume him?

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

The golden energy within him flared, pulsing beneath his skin. It was waiting—waiting for him to stop holding back.

So he did.

A shockwave of golden light exploded outward from Tharion's body. The ground trembled. The masked warriors stumbled back, momentarily blinded. Even Ceyla had to shield her eyes.

Then, something changed.

The air around Tharion rippled. His sword was no longer just a blade—it was a beacon of pure, radiant energy.

The remaining warriors hesitated.

Tharion met their unreadable gazes. "Run."

For the first time, they obeyed.

One by one, the cloaked figures vanished into the forest, fading into the darkness like wraiths.

Aftermath and Unanswered Questions

Ceyla lowered her bow, breathing heavily. "What the hell was that?"

Tharion didn't answer. His body felt different—lighter, stronger, yet on the verge of collapse. He fell to one knee, barely able to keep himself upright.

Ceyla was beside him in an instant. "Tharion!"

"I'm... fine," he murmured.

The prisoners were still staring, their expressions a mixture of fear and awe.

Edran, barely conscious, rasped, "Who... are you?"

Tharion's grip on his blade tightened.

That was the question, wasn't it?

But after tonight, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.