CHAPTER 57: VENGEANCE

Far from the ashes of the Ghost Village and the storm of fury surrounding Morgan, a suffocating silence settled over a forgotten part of the world—a rift of time and space, sealed in shadow.

Within this void walked the hooded figure.

His cloak dragged behind him like black mist. The dim violet sky overhead seemed to pulse with energy—like a living thing that watched him, breathing in unison with every one of his quiet, measured steps.

He came to a stop before an ancient altar carved out of what looked like molten obsidian. The stones around it whispered with voices long dead, and a spectral glow lined the edges of the ancient platform. The hooded man bowed low, pressing one gloved hand to his chest.

Then came the sound. A low thrum, like thunder locked within the earth.

From the swirling void above descended seven colossal thrones formed from crystal, bone, shadow, and divine fire. Upon each sat one of the Seven—beings not of flesh and blood, but of higher essence. They were ancient lords, sovereigns over ruin and destiny, known as the Elders of Sovereign Wrath.

The hooded figure remained kneeling.

One of them leaned forward. She wore a crown of flame, and her voice rang like fire devouring parchment.

"You have failed."

The others did not speak.

"Coris lives," another one hissed. This one had no face, only a smooth mirror where eyes and lips should be. It glowed with truths not meant to be known.

"Dominic lives. Lady Fares lives. Your instructions were clear. We warned you: failure has a cost."

The hooded figure did not move.

"Why?" demanded a third. A being who glowed with heavenly light and wore broken chains as jewelry. "Why did you let Coris continue to breathe? She was your puppet."

The hooded figure raised his head, revealing lips stitched shut by silver thread. The thrones were still. Then came a new voice. The Seventh.

The only one who had not spoken until now.

He was cloaked in smoke, his throne made of layered bones and bleeding roots. His presence was immense, quiet, and horrifying.

"It is time," the Seventh said.

The others turned toward him.

"Time to cut the strings. Coris failed. Her emotions made her brittle. She was never meant to survive this game."

The hooded figure, still kneeling, lifted one hand toward his lips. With a slow pull, he removed the silver thread, unraveling the stitches. Blood trickled from his mouth.

He stood.

His voice was deep and smooth like oil across broken stone.

"I will kill her myself."

The air trembled.

The mirror-faced elder nodded.

"You may take the Blade of Erasure. It will sever her soul from all realms."

From the void, a sword descended—made of no metal, no element known to mortals. It was colorless. Void itself. The hooded figure caught it in one hand.

"And if I succeed?" he asked.

The flame-crowned one answered, "You will become our eighth."

The Seventh narrowed his eyes. "If you fail again, you will be erased from every memory that ever held your name."

The hooded man bowed.

Then he turned and stepped into the rift. Behind him, the throne-room vanished like a dying dream.

The sky above the Ghost Lands began to shift.

He walked on dark winds, passed through time, crossed rivers of glowing blood and mountains built from screams. Until he reached a place he remembered. A memory he never wanted.

The Dead Garden.

Where Coris had once sworn loyalty. Where she had once whispered dreams into his ear, thinking him a messenger of her destiny. Where he had seduced her with promises of power, of love, of vengeance against her oppressors.

And now he would return not as her lover—but as her executioner.

He moved through the burnt garden, stepping over twisted roots and scorched petals.

Then he saw her.

Coris stood before a small fire, her back to him. She was alone. Her armor was cracked. Blood dried across her cheeks. Her once-majestic presence had become something solemn and scarred.

But he knew her power. The Orb of Reverence pulsed within her now.

"You came," she said, without turning.

He remained silent.

"You always come back," she whispered. Then she turned.

Their eyes met.bOnce, there had been love. Now, only war.

"So it’s true," she said, her voice thick with betrayal. "You were never mine. You were theirs."

He unsheathed the Blade of Erasure.

"They want me dead, then?" she asked.

He nodded. Coris’s fists clenched. Shadows danced across her shoulders.

"I gave them everything. I did what no one else would. I sacrificed my name, my dignity, my honor. For them. For you."

Still, he did not speak. Coris looked away, bitter wind blowing across her face.

"So that’s how it ends." He moved closer. But her eyes glinted.

"No. Not today."

She raised her hands. From her back, wings of crackling shadow-fire erupted. Her hair blew upward, her body glowing with a violent black light.

"If I am to die, I’ll die making you bleed."

She launched herself forward. The hooded figure blocked her strike. Their blades met with a deafening clash.

The trees exploded from the shockwave.

He moved like a phantom, silent and precise.

She moved like a storm.

Blades sang. Magic ruptured the earth. Stones flew. The entire forest began to die around them.

Coris struck him across the chest. He flew backwards, shattering a boulder. He stood again.

She raised her hands and unleashed a wave of shadow-thorns, thousands of them slicing through the air. He cut them all.

He vanished.

She turned, gasping—he appeared behind her and stabbed forward. She blocked, screamed, and released a wave of darkness that turned his cloak to ash.

"You don’t get to kill me!" she roared. "Not after everything."

He leapt again. Their swords met in mid-air. The earth cracked beneath them.

Time itself seemed to slow.

And then—Coris smiled.

"You forgot something."

She reached into her chest and pulled out the glowing orb.

The Orb of Reverence.

She absorbed it.

Black lightning shot out in all directions. The world itself screamed.

Her body became luminous. Her eyes burned with stars.

She held her arms wide, and screamed at the sky. The hooded man backed away.

He hadn’t seen this in his calculations. She looked at him, no longer Coris. Something more.

She raised her sword. It split into two.

"I was meant to be your puppet," she whispered. "Now I’ll be your death."

And she launched and in a slice his head fell off.