The final confrontation loomed. Draethar's citadel was a massive structure, towering above the land like a dark wound in the world. As they approached, the ground itself seemed to tremble with the weight of the dark sorcerer's power.
Inside, Draethar awaited them, standing before the throne of shadows. His once-proud face was now a grotesque mask of decay, his eyes glowing with an unnatural hunger.
"Aeron of the Ancient Blood," Draethar's voice echoed through the chamber. "You are the last of your kind. The last who can stand in my way. The artifact you hold belongs to me. I will not allow it to fall into the hands of a mere child."
"I am no child," Aeron replied, his voice steady. "And this artifact will not be used to destroy, but to protect."
The battle that followed was unlike any Aeron had ever faced. Draethar's magic twisted the world around him, darkening the skies and warping reality itself. But Aeron's power, awakened by the bloodline, began to rival Draethar's own.
At the climax of the battle, Aeron stood at the center of the citadel, the artifact glowing with an intensity that threatened to tear the very fabric of existence apart. Draethar lunged toward him, but Aeron's hand rose, and in that moment, the artifact's power surged, enveloping both of them in a blinding light.
The world held its breath.