Drake lay on the cold, broken ground, every bone in his body screaming in agony. He gasped for air, barely able to lift his head. Around him, the ruins of Gruter's fortress crumbled, the once-mighty structure reduced to rubble. The sky above had cleared, the oppressive red glow replaced by a faint, flickering light—the first sign of hope in what felt like an eternity.
But as Drake tried to rise, he felt an unbearable weight pressing down on him. The Blade of Shadows, lying a few feet away, pulsed with dark energy, still alive with the power it had taken from Gruter—and from him.
He knew what it meant. He had defeated Gruter, but the price for wielding the Blade of Shadows had always been clear. His life was the final cost.
Drake's vision blurred, and his limbs grew heavier by the second. He had fought so hard to save the world, to protect those he loved, but now… he realized there was no saving himself. The Blade of Shadows had been a double-edged sword all along, a tool of immense power that demanded everything from its wielder.
But as darkness crept into the corners of his vision, a strange calm settled over Drake. He had fulfilled his role as the Chosen One. He had stopped Gruter. And though his own life was slipping away, the world would live on without him.
"Thank you," Drake whispered, his voice barely audible, whether to the blade, to his fallen comrades, or to the gods themselves, he wasn't sure.
With one final breath, he closed his eyes, the Blade of Shadows pulsing one last time before its energy faded into nothingness.
Drake's body lay still, bathed in the faint glow of dawn. The first light of a new day, and a new age, had begun to rise.