The battlefield collapsed inward. What had been armies became fragments, caught in the pull of a storm that no longer belonged to sky or earth. Shadow-fire roared, arcs of molten darkness carving trenches through the ground. Men screamed, their cries swallowed by the abyss, yet no one fled. Every gaze was fixed on the storm’s heart—on the choice that would end them all. --- Aria stood swaying, her body little more than blood and will. Her hand gripped her sword tight enough to draw her own blood. Each breath rattled, her ribs aching with fire. But she did not look away from Lucien. “Fight it,” she whispered, her voice raw, broken, but still carrying. “Fight for me. For us.” The shadows hissed, recoiling as though her words cut deeper than steel. --- Lucien staggered. His fireblade burned unsteady, flaring and guttering like a dying star. The mark screamed, searing his veins, forcing the weapon higher. End her. Claim her. Be free. But beneath it, her voice—Aria’s voice
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