Silas stood over Malachar's lifeless body, his chest heaving as the adrenaline of battle slowly ebbed away. With trembling hands, he reached down and gently removed the Crown of Eternal Flame from the demon lord's head.
"I'm sorry," Silas whispered, his voice barely audible in the cavernous chamber. "I didn't want it to end this way."
As he cradled the crown in his hands, the weight of his actions settled upon him like a suffocating blanket. Silas's mind reeled, replaying the violent encounters that had led him to this moment. The goblins in the village, Kaelix, Azuroth, and now Malachar – a trail of bodies left in his wake.
He sank to his knees, the cold stone floor a stark contrast to the warmth of the crown in his grasp. "Is this what being a mage knight is all about?" Silas wondered aloud, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. "Is this what going on adventures means? Killing, barely surviving, and then more killing?"
