The storm didn't come from above.
It rose from within.
The ground cracked beneath the Ashen Banner's feet, not from pressure or magic—but from a weight that was familiar.
Hope… curdling.
Lyra was the first to sense it. Her breath caught, her voice strained. "Something's wrong. It feels like…"
"…me," Ael finished.
Because it was.
—
On the eve of what should have been rest, as the sun fell beyond the mountains and the last funeral pyres of Tharwen's Hollow burned low, the final general appeared.
Not with a host.
Not with chains.
But with presence.
Ael stood alone atop the temple steps when he felt it—a second heartbeat. Not behind him. Not beside him.
But beneath his own ribs.
And then the figure rose from the earth, forged from flickers of light, fire, shadow, and sorrow.
It wore his face.
His eyes.
His sword.
But twisted.
Where Ael's armor bore marks of battle, this one was pristine—polished black edged with crimson veining like dying embers. Its expression was calm. Cold. Empty.
And behind it, not soldiers… but feelings.
Twisted.
Rejected.
Unspoken.
—
The being stepped forward.
Ael did not raise his blade.
Not yet.
"Are you another shadow? Another echo of my failure?"
It answered in his voice.
Only quieter.
"I am your final truth.
The part of you that still believes it was all for nothing.
You gathered shards, but left kingdoms to fall.
You gained emotions, but broke those who loved you.
Every choice you made carved out someone else's grave.
Every soul you saved came at a price you never paid.
I am not your mistake.I am your conclusion."
It raised its sword.
And the wind died.
—
The army watched from below as Ael faced himself—truly, fully, utterly.
But this was no ordinary duel.
It took place across memory.
The battlefield shifted.
With each strike, they were flung through Ael's past.
The walls of his old throne room cracked around them.
Then the forests where he first saved Lyra, now burning.
Then the place he died in his first life—alone, betrayed, smiling.
Because back then, he believed the end was better than feeling.
The Harbinger struck hard.
And each blow wasn't pain—it was doubt.
Visions of allies falling. People he couldn't save. Children he failed to protect. Lovers who walked away.
"You can't save them all," it whispered.
"You never could."
—
Ael dropped to one knee.
Not from wounds.
But from guilt.
The Harbinger raised its blade for the final blow.
Lyra screamed his name—
And he whispered:
"…You're right."
The sword froze in the air.
"I did let people die. I made mistakes that can't be erased. I broke things that can't be fixed."
He stood.
"I can't change the past."
He raised his eyes.
"But I can choose the future."
—
And with that choice—
The shards within him lit.
Emotion. Hope. Longing. Trust. Remorse. Faith. Self.
They didn't flare with power.
They held him steady.
He didn't fight harder.
He fought truer.
Each parry wasn't faster—but stronger.
Each step forward wasn't fueled by rage—but resolve.
Because now, for the first time, Ael wasn't fighting to win.
He was fighting to live.
—
Their blades locked in a final clash.
The Harbinger's voice cracked. "You still think hope is enough?"
Ael leaned in.
"No. But it's where we start."
He pulled the Harbinger into an embrace.
And whispered:
"You are a part of me. But you do not define me."
Light burst between them—not violent.
But forgiving.
The Harbinger gasped.
And began to cry.
One tear.
One sob.
Then silence.
And the figure dissolved into sparks.
—
The world stopped shaking.
The wind returned.
The dawn broke.
And Ael stood, sword lowered, heart unbroken.
The final general was gone.
And the Hollow King…
Was now alone.
—
Far beyond the veil, atop his throne of shadows, the Hollow King rose at last.
No more generals.
No more riddles.
Only one opponent remained.
He stepped down into the world.
And said:
"So be it. Let feeling meet finality. Let man face god."
"Come, Ael Rynhart. Let us see which soul survives."