Chapter 44 – The Hero’s Fall

The royal corridors stretched endlessly before Lucian, their opulence now suffocating. Every polished column, every flickering torch, seemed to whisper of betrayal, of a glory lost. Gold-embroidered tapestries once depicting his victories now appeared to mock him. He could almost hear the hushed laughter of the court, hiding behind velvet curtains and polished doors.

The Hero of the Kingdom? A farce.

The Chosen of the Gods? Forgotten.

The Savior of the People? Abandoned.

And Kael—Kael had played him like a puppet. Every move. Every word. A carefully orchestrated tragedy.

His boots echoed through the marble halls like the tolling of a funeral bell. Every step felt heavier. Slower. As if the world itself recoiled from him. As if the very walls remembered.

The moonlit garden awaited him beyond the final archway—a sanctuary of silver and silence, its stillness pierced only by the occasional rustle of wind brushing through the rose vines. Statues of fallen heroes lined the path, each carved in timeless triumph. Stoic. Eternal.

Once, Lucian had walked here with pride. With her. With hope.

Now, he couldn't meet their eyes.

Then—footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

He turned, the pain twisting in his chest.

She stood there.

The woman he had loved. Fought for. Bled for. Her hair shimmered in the moonlight, and her eyes—once filled with warmth—now held something far colder. Something he feared more than blades or magic: doubt.

"Say it's a lie," Lucian whispered. "Tell me you don't believe them. That you still believe in me."

Silence.

Her gaze faltered. "Lucian…"

"I did this for you," he said, stepping forward. "For the kingdom. For us."

But she took a step back.

"You let your anger lead you," she said softly. "You changed."

Lucian's heart pounded. "I was betrayed! Kael twisted everything—"

"Maybe," she interrupted, "you were the one who never saw the truth."

Her voice was quiet. But it struck like lightning.

Lucian staggered, breath shallow. The weight of her words was heavier than any wound he had suffered on the battlefield. Her eyes, once the source of his strength, now looked through him like he was a stranger.

"Don't..." he choked. "Don't turn your back on me."

But she already had.

Her footsteps faded, each one echoing louder than the last, leaving him beneath the cold moonlight. The garden around him, once a place of peace, now felt like a graveyard.

And the last piece of his world crumbled into silence.

Lucian stood still.

Numb.

Then—clapping.

Slow. Inevitable. Mocking.

From the shadows of a marble arch, Kael emerged.

He leaned against a pillar, the moonlight casting his figure in shades of silver and shadow. A devil draped in elegance. His eyes gleamed with mirthless amusement.

"Touching," Kael drawled, his voice low, silk laced with venom. "Truly. A performance worthy of tragedy."

Lucian turned, fury igniting like wildfire.

"You," he spat.

Kael offered a mild smile. "You make it sound personal."

Lucian's fists trembled. "You did this."

"I merely lifted the veil," Kael replied coolly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "The rest? You managed all on your own."

"LIAR!"

Lucian lunged, but it was a desperate move. Reckless. Clumsy. Kael barely moved—a sidestep, a flick of the wrist—and Lucian stumbled past him like a drunkard.

A shadow of the warrior he once was.

Kael didn't even draw a blade. He didn't need to.

Just a sigh. Barely audible. "So predictable."

Lucian whirled, face twisted with rage and shame.

Kael stepped forward, his tone sharpening.

"You stood on a pedestal. Praised. Worshipped. But the moment they saw your cracks?" He gestured lazily toward the castle. "They fled. The King doubts. The Church whispers. Your allies scatter."

He tilted his head. "And she?"

Lucian's eyes burned, but no words came.

Kael's voice dropped to a whisper, each word carved like a dagger.

"She left you."

Lucian's knees buckled. His strength drained, not by magic, but by truth.

"I—I can still fix this," he gasped, reaching for something that no longer existed.

Kael leaned in close, so close Lucian could see the cold calculation in his eyes.

"No, Lucian," he said, voice void of sympathy. "You were never a hero. You were a symbol. A convenient myth. A story they needed to believe in."

He paused, straightening. "And now?"

Kael stepped back, his gaze final.

"You're nothing."

Lucian's sword slipped from his grasp. The once-sacred blade, gifted by the High Priests and kissed by divine light, fell into the garden's earth with a dull thud. Its glow—once steady and radiant—flickered.

Then faded.

He dropped to his knees.

Not broken in body.

But shattered in soul.

Around him, the statues of old heroes looked down without mercy.

Above him, the moon offered no comfort.

And Kael?

Kael turned his back.

He didn't need to kill the Hero.

He had erased him.

Lucian remained, surrounded by silence, by memory, by the echoes of a name that no longer held meaning.

A cold wind stirred the garden, carrying away the last remnants of light.

And in that moment, Lucian understood:

The fall of a hero wasn't in battle.

It was in being forgotten.

To be continued...