Arkanos's voice lingered in the air like smoke over a battlefield—sharp, acrid, and unforgettable. The word "retreat" tasted of bile on his tongue, a concept so foreign it was nearly profane. He paced forward, each step slow, deliberate, resonating through the stone as if the earth itself dared not breathe too loudly.
Yoanas stood frozen, the weight of his son's death crushing his breath, his composure, his very soul. The gleam of his silver-blue armor, once proud and defiant, now reflected a cruel truth—no metal could guard against the grief etched into a father's heart.
Arkanos studied him, not as a warrior gauging a foe, but as a man standing before a mirror that revealed something he did not wish to see.
A father.
A legacy.
A son, now dead by his own hand.
The emperor's grip on his holy sword loosened—just slightly. The divine light pulsing along its length dimmed to a gentle flicker, as though the weapon, too, paused to reflect.
