The chamber trembled as the two figures clashed—light against dark, hope against despair. The air itself seemed to split between them, charged with the weight of their destinies. Morathi, the Dark Sovereign, moved like a shadow given form, his every strike precise, lethal. Yet for the first time in centuries, something flickered behind his ice-cold eyes—amusement.

"You fight with fire, little hero," he mused, parrying a blow that would have felled a lesser man. "But fire dies in the void."

The hero—you—said nothing. Your breaths came ragged, your muscles screaming, but your grip on your weapon never wavered. Morathi was faster, stronger, his movements honed by centuries of cruelty. But you had something he could never understand: conviction.

Then—the opening. A fraction of a second, a misstep. You twisted, feinted, and with a desperate lunge, you wrenched the cursed blade from Morathi’s grasp.

The weapon clattered across the stone as the Dark Sovereign staggered—then fell to one knee.

Silence.

For the first time, Morathi looked up at you not with disdain, but with something almost like… respect.

"Well struck," he admitted, his voice a velvet rasp. "But tell me—do you truly believe this ends with me?"

You stepped forward, ready to deliver the final blow—when agony lanced through your side.

Your vision blurred. The taste of copper flooded your mouth. Stumbling back, your hand came away from your ribs—wet, red.

Morathi hadn’t moved. But his smile was a blade all its own.

"Ah,"he murmured. "You didn’t think my weapon was the only poisoned thing here, did you?"