Chapter Twelve: The Awakening Spark

The moment Althar crossed the battlefield and charged at the masked commander, time itself seemed to bend around him. His surroundings dulled—sound, color, sensation—until there was only his heartbeat and the glow building in his chest. His sword gleamed with each step, trails of golden light flickering from its edges.

The commander stood unmoved. The shadowy tendrils coiled protectively around them like vipers, ready to strike. Althar closed the distance in seconds and brought his blade down in a wide arc.

The masked figure blocked with their staff, and the collision sent a thunderous shockwave through the field. Soldiers on both sides stumbled. Dust flew. Magic cracked the earth like lightning.

But Althar didn't retreat. He pushed forward, his strength growing with every blow, his body pulsing with unfamiliar power. Each strike forced the commander back, step by step.

"You should not exist," the figure hissed.

"Yet I do," Althar growled. "And I will make you regret ever stepping foot on my soil."

Their duel carved a circle of devastation in the heart of the battlefield. Fire and darkness clashed, light and shadow twisted into chaos. The commander retaliated with a surge of black flame, but Althar met it with a sweep of his sword. The two forces collided in the air, canceling each other out in a burst of smoke and energy.

The soldiers around them were now fully engaged. Rorek held the line, barking orders while cutting down monstrosities with brutal efficiency. The mages stood behind enchanted barricades, casting protective barriers and elemental volleys. Even the wounded fought from the ground, refusing to retreat.

This wasn't just a battle.

This was survival.

Althar and the masked commander traded blows again, their movements faster than the eye could follow. But then, a flash—Althar saw an opening and drove his sword through the commander's shoulder.

A shriek tore through the air—not of pain, but rage.

Black mist poured from the wound, thick and choking. The figure leapt backward, and the mask cracked slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin and one violet eye that burned with madness.

"You think this is victory?" the figure rasped. "This is merely your invitation to the end."

Then they vanished—imploding into shadow, the creatures on the battlefield collapsing in heaps as their connection to the darkness was severed.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Althar stood still, breathing hard, his sword pulsing in his hand. His men were cheering, but he didn't feel triumph. He felt… emptiness.

Because it wasn't over.

He turned, slowly walking back toward the center of the battlefield. The bodies of the fallen littered the ground. Blood stained the soil. His soldiers—his people—had fought like heroes. And many would never rise again.

Rorek approached, his armor dented and scorched. "They're retreating. Or more accurately… falling apart. Whatever spell held them together vanished with that cloaked bastard."

Althar nodded, then looked at his sword. The golden light was dimming now, returning to normal steel. But something deep inside him had changed. He could feel it.

"Whatever they are," Althar said, "they're not done with us. This was a test."

Rorek nodded solemnly. "A test we passed."

"For now." Althar sheathed his sword. "Double the scouts. Fortify the villages. And bring the wounded back to the capital. I want the royal mages to begin scrying across all border realms. We're not waiting for another surprise."

Rorek bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Althar turned his gaze toward the crimson horizon. And for a moment, he felt something stir—warmth. Not magic. Not adrenaline. Something... human.

Fear.

Grief.

Hope.

He was beginning to feel more than a king should. Emotions he had once believed to be chains—now slowly becoming the very fire in his chest.

A healer rushed to him, a young girl barely out of training, covered in blood and soot. "Y-Your Majesty," she stammered, bowing quickly. "You're hurt."

Althar looked down. A slash across his ribs had bled through the armor, but he hadn't noticed. Not until she pointed it out.

"I'm fine," he said gruffly. But as she knelt to tend to him, he didn't stop her.

The wound stung. But he let her work. And when their eyes met for a moment—her hands trembling, her lips quivering—he saw the fear she was holding back.

He did something he hadn't done in either life.

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. She nodded and returned to her work.

Behind him, the battlefield was being cleared. The cries of the dying were slowly fading into the murmur of the living. But Althar knew this was only the beginning.

Whatever he was becoming—king, weapon, or something far stranger—he would have to face it soon.

And he would do it with a heart that was no longer empty.