The death of Adel von Granz was not the thunderous finale the court poets had predicted. There was no celestial choir, no blood-red sunset. Instead, a hollow silence filled the vast throne room, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thud of blood droplets hitting the cold quartz. The "Golden Twin," whose every step had been measured to the millimeter, lay as a shapeless heap of metal at the foot of a throne that remained empty.
The guard, whose halberd had just severed the history of an entire empire, froze once more. His face remained a mask of absolute indifference. For him, this fight had been no heroic feat—it was merely the removal of an obstruction, a nuisance of noise that had dared to violate the stillness of the halls.
The faceless youth in the canvas shirt slowly stood up. He cast one final look at Adel's glassy eyes, which were still frozen in a stare of pure bewilderment—the ultimate insult to a man who believed himself the center of the universe. The youth gave the guard no orders. He did not turn back to savor the sight of his fallen foe. He simply walked away, and the sound of his footsteps—soft, natural, and alive—faded into the depths of the castle, leaving the dead alone with their unfulfilled glory.
Eli fled as if death itself were snapping at his heels. He did not see the purple gardens burning to ash, nor did he hear the screams of his comrades dying behind him in senseless fury. Only one image pulsed in his mind: the perfect hero, the god-like Adel, hewn in two in a single heartbeat.
When the boy reached the shore, he was shaking so violently he could barely scramble onto the frigate. The captain, seeing the lone, broken figure of the squire, turned pale.
"Where is Lord Adel? Where is the victory?" the officer's voice trembled.
Eli did not answer. He merely pointed a shaking hand toward the white spires of the distant castle. His eyes no longer held the adoration with which he used to gaze upon his master. Instead, they were filled with a primal, icy terror of a world that had proven to be far larger, simpler, and more frightening than any of their glittering ideals.
Months later, word of the "Golden Twin's" fall reached the shores of the Empire. But instead of bringing humility, the news birthed a monstrous, blackened Wrath.
The people, who believed in Adel's infallibility, refused to accept the truth of his pathetic end. In taverns and town halls, they whispered of demonic treachery, of foul backstabbing, and of magic that had defiled a "fair" fight. The fallen hero's pride had transformed into a collective national rage.
The ports became hives of industry. No one forged elegant silver anymore. In its place came crude, heavy cast iron. The scholars no longer debated the harmony of the spheres—they drew blueprints for siege engines capable of grinding mountains into dust.
Eli watched this madness from the shadows of the harbor warehouses. He tried to speak, tried to explain that there was no "evil" in that castle to be conquered by a sword, and that their rage was only feeding the same void that had swallowed Adel. But no one listened.
The Empire was preparing for a new kind of war. They no longer needed a hero. They needed an excuse to destroy a world that had dared to ignore their "greatest" triumph.
Meanwhile, far across the sea in that quiet castle, the faceless youth stood on a balcony, watching the leaden clouds gathering on the horizon. He knew that Wrath always follows in the footsteps of Pride, and that this cycle was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons.