Chapter Five: The Fall of the Black Ember

Malrik staggered back, his crimson cloak smoldering where Lyara’s blade had struck. The golden light radiating from her form burned against the darkness he commanded, pushing it back like a tide against jagged rocks. He let out a furious snarl, his fingers curling as tendrils of shadow coiled around his arms.

"This is not over," he spat, his eyes flashing with defiance.

Lyara lifted her sword, its edge gleaming with the crown’s divine power. "It already is, Malrik."

She lunged.

Malrik raised his arms, summoning a wall of darkness between them, but it shattered the moment Lyara’s blade touched it. The force sent him sprawling across the stone floor. He landed hard, coughing as blood dripped from his lips.

For the first time, his confidence wavered.

"You... you don't understand what you've done," he gasped, struggling to his feet. "The crown's power is not meant to be wielded by the weak!"

Lyara took slow steps forward, her every movement radiating strength. She could feel the weight of the Ashen Crown, not just on her head, but in her very soul. It whispered to her—echoes of rulers long gone, their wisdom, their warnings.

"You are wrong, Malrik," she said, her voice unwavering. "Power does not belong to those who crave it. It belongs to those who will protect it."

Malrik let out a snarl of frustration. He thrust his hand toward her, and a wave of black fire erupted from his palm. The cursed flames roared forward, twisting like vipers, seeking to consume her.

Lyara did not flinch.

She raised her free hand, and the golden radiance of the Ashen Crown surged to life. A luminous shield formed around her, and when the black fire met it, the flames disintegrated as though they had never been.

Malrik stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief.

Lyara clenched her jaw. It had to end now.

Before Malrik could conjure another spell, she closed the distance between them. With a single, precise strike, she drove her blade through his chest.

Malrik froze. His eyes widened as he looked down at the sword buried in his body, the golden energy coursing through him. His lips parted, but no words came—only a broken, rasping breath.

The shadows that once clung to him began to dissolve, as if his very existence had been tethered to them. His body crumbled into dust, scattering into the winds of the chamber.

Lyara exhaled, her grip tightening on her sword as she stepped back.

It was over.

The leader of the Order of Black Ember was no more.

But the temple had begun to tremble.

The stone walls cracked, and the runes that once glowed with power flickered erratically. The air itself seemed to vibrate, heavy with the remnants of battle. The magic that had long bound this place together was unraveling.

Lyara turned toward the exit, but before she could take a step, the voice of the temple spoke once more.

"The trials are complete," it rumbled, though weaker than before. "The guardian has been chosen. The crown… is yours."

The weight of those words settled upon her shoulders. The Ashen Crown pulsed, as if acknowledging its new bearer.

She didn’t have time to reflect.

The temple’s walls began to collapse.

Without hesitation, Lyara broke into a sprint, weaving between falling debris as the chamber crumbled around her. Dust choked the air, and the ground split beneath her feet. She leaped over a jagged fissure, barely managing to land on solid ground.

The exit was so close.

With one final push, she burst through the temple doors just as the structure behind her caved in entirely. A great thunderous crash echoed through the valley as the once-sacred temple of Eldrakar was reduced to nothing but rubble.

Silence followed.

Lyara stood at the edge of the ruins, breathing heavily. The night sky stretched endlessly above her, the stars glinting like shards of silver.

She lifted a hand to the crown upon her head.

It was over.

Or so she thought.

A sudden chill prickled at the back of her neck.

She turned sharply.

Across the valley, beyond the mountains, beyond the ruins, dark figures stood silhouetted against the moonlit horizon. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Cloaked warriors, their armor glinting ominously, banners bearing the sigil of the Order of Black Ember fluttering in the wind.

The true war was only beginning.

Lyara set her jaw, gripping her sword once more.

If they wanted the Ashen Crown, they would have to take it from her cold, dead hands.

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