The Last Ember

The throne room was eerily silent, save for the soft crackle of the fading Thronefire. Seth lay motionless on the cold stone floor, his body scorched and broken. Callan's hand trembled as it hovered over his son's chest, his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

The battle had been swift, brutal, and ultimately tragic. Seth had been driven by the flames of vengeance and the manipulations of the cult, and now, in the wake of their violent clash, Callan was left with nothing but the ashes of his son's dream.

Ren, standing a few feet away, shifted uncomfortably. He had watched the entire fight, feeling helpless as Callan had struggled against a foe who was both his flesh and blood and the embodiment of everything he had fought to destroy.

"Well, that went to hell," Ren muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he approached Callan.

Callan didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on Seth's broken form, his expression unreadable.

"Is he… gone?" Ren asked cautiously.

Callan's voice was raw. "Not yet."

Ren sighed and crouched beside Callan. "You know… for all the power you've got, you really suck at this father thing."

Callan's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "I failed him."

"You did what you could," Ren said firmly. "You gave him a chance. It wasn't your fault that he fell into this... mess. He wasn't the kid you remember."

The words stung, but they were true. Callan's heart ached for the child he had once held in his arms—before the world had broken them both. Before the Thronefire had burned away any remnants of the person Seth might have become.

But there was no time for grief.

"Where's the cult?" Callan asked, his voice sharp. He forced himself to his feet, his knees aching, his body protesting every movement.

Ren scanned the throne room. "Gone. Probably retreated into the deeper halls. They're not stupid—they won't give up this easy."

Callan nodded grimly. He had expected as much. The cultists were too deeply entrenched, their influence woven into the very fabric of Cindermarch. They weren't finished yet.

"Stay alert," Callan ordered, turning toward the darkened archway leading deeper into the palace. "We still have work to do."

Ren followed, keeping his distance but still close enough to watch Callan's every move.

The deeper they ventured into the heart of the palace, the more distorted the world around them became. The air was thick with unnatural energy, a pulse of dark magic that seemed to radiate from the very walls. The temperature fluctuated wildly, the stone itself warping and shifting in a way that made Callan's skin crawl.

"This place is falling apart," Ren muttered. "Didn't think reality could bend like this."

Callan's jaw tightened. "The cult didn't just crack the seals on the city. They've been feeding the Thronefire. The city's becoming unstable—corrupt. The magic is warping everything."

They passed through a vast hall, its ceiling arching high above them, dark murals depicting demonic rites and twisted rituals that seemed to move as if alive. The echoes of chanting still lingered in the air, faint and eerie.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the far end of the hall.

"Callan Routh."

The voice was familiar. Cold. Devoid of emotion.

Callan turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. In front of him stood a woman draped in tattered black robes, her long white hair cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes, however, were the most unsettling part—pale and empty, as if her soul had long since been consumed by the darkness she served.

The woman smiled. "I see you still haven't learned your lesson."

Callan's eyes narrowed. "Lira."

She chuckled softly, stepping forward. "It's a pleasure to see you again, my dear General. You look… weary. Has it been so long since you last ruled?"

"Not long enough," Callan said darkly. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to finish what you started," Lira said, her voice dripping with venom. "You abandoned this city, and with it, your legacy. But you can't run from your blood forever."

Ren's eyes flickered between the two. "Another fan of the old ways, huh?"

Lira's gaze flickered toward Ren with a look of contempt. "The weak have no place here."

Callan's expression hardened. "You want a fight? Fine. But I'm not here to dance with ghosts."

Lira raised her hand, and the shadows around them shifted. The temperature dropped sharply as tendrils of black smoke coiled toward the ceiling, summoning dark figures from the depths of the palace. They were cloaked in shadow, their faces obscured, but their weapons gleamed with cold malice.

Ren took a step back, ready to fight, but Callan held up his hand.

"No." Callan's voice was low, a growl of anger and frustration. "This ends here."

Lira laughed, the sound echoing through the hall. "You think you can stop me? You are nothing more than a ghost of the past. The Thronefire will reignite, and nothing you do can change that."

Callan's eyes burned with the intensity of the flame within him. "Then let's see if the fire can survive me."

With a roar, Callan surged forward, his sword raised high. The shadow figures closed in, but Callan's movements were a blur—blades flashing, demons falling to the ground with every strike.

Lira watched the chaos unfold, her eyes cold and calculating. "This is just the beginning, Callan. You cannot fight what's already been set in motion."

Callan didn't answer. He slashed through the shadows, each stroke burning with the rage of a man who had lost everything. His body moved on instinct, the weight of his past fueling each movement. He could feel the magic of the Thronefire pressing against him, but he fought through it, using his power to break through the cult's magic and send the figures crashing to the ground.

But Lira wasn't done. With a swift motion, she raised her hands, summoning more shadows from the floor, encasing Callan in a web of dark energy. The tendrils wrapped around his limbs, squeezing with inhuman strength.

"You cannot stop it, Callan," she hissed. "It is already done."

Callan gritted his teeth, the darkness closing in around him. He reached deep within, feeling the familiar pulse of power—the magic that had once been his to command, the force that had once made him unstoppable.

And then, he broke it.

With a roar, Callan shattered the darkness, sending waves of energy cascading through the hall. The shadows recoiled, but Lira's laugh rang out again, louder and more confident than before.

"Fool," she sneered. "You've only delayed the inevitable."

Callan's eyes burned with determination. "Then let's see if you can survive the fire, Lira."