The city was different now.
The slums had once been a place of suffering, filled with people who had long since given up hope. But after the rebellion's victories—the fall of Lord Devrin, the ambush in the market, the death of Sir Aldric—something had changed.
Hope had returned.
And so had fear.
Valen saw it in the way people whispered his name, the way they hurried to hide when Radiant knights passed through their streets. The rebellion had wounded the Order, but it had not broken them.
No, the real battle was still coming.
And it would start with him.
---
It happened at dusk.
A single rider entered the slums, his horse slow, deliberate, as if he had no fear of the streets around him. The people watched in silence as he passed. No one moved. No one breathed.
He wore the colors of the Radiant Order. His armor gleamed despite the dirt of the roads. His golden cloak rippled behind him.
Marek.
He stopped in the heart of the ruined marketplace—the same place Valen had fought his knights, the same place that still bore the blackened scars of fire.
And then, he spoke.
"Valen."
No anger. No hatred. Just his name, spoken like a certainty.
Valen stepped forward, emerging from the shadows of a half-collapsed building. His sword was sheathed at his side. His heart was steady.
Marek turned his head slightly, studying him. "I thought you'd run."
Valen met his gaze. "You should know by now—I don't run."
Marek nodded, as if he had expected the answer. Then, he dismounted.
"I won't send my men after you," he said. "Not this time."
Valen tilted his head. "Mercy?"
Marek shook his head. "Honor." He unbuckled his sword, holding it loosely at his side. "This ends tonight."
The crowd around them grew. People whispered in hushed voices, afraid to be seen, but unable to look away.
Serra appeared at Valen's side. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
Serra's jaw tightened, but she stepped back.
Marek took his stance. "One of us leaves this place alive."
Valen breathed in. The past flickered in his mind—the training halls, the brotherhood, the moment Marek had spared him years ago.
Then he let it all go.
He drew his sword.
"No more words."
---
Marek moved first.
He struck with precision, his blade flashing toward Valen's throat. Valen ducked, stepping aside, parrying the next blow. Sparks flew as their swords met, steel against steel, the force of the clash echoing through the marketplace.
Marek was faster than before. Stronger. He had honed himself into something relentless, something inhuman in his perfection.
But Valen was different too.
He was not the boy who had once lost every duel. He was not the knight who had hesitated in the halls of the cathedral.
He was a man forged in the dark.
Marek feinted left, then slashed at Valen's ribs. Valen twisted away, countering with a quick riposte. Marek blocked, but not fast enough. A thin line of red appeared on his cheek.
Marek exhaled. "You've improved."
Valen didn't respond. He pressed forward.
The fight turned brutal. Marek was methodical, each strike measured. Valen was unpredictable, his movements sharp and unorthodox.
The crowd was silent. Watching. Waiting.
Then Marek's blade cut deep into Valen's side.
Pain burned through him. He staggered, blood dripping onto the stone.
Marek hesitated. Just for a second.
Valen used it.
He lunged, driving his sword forward—straight into Marek's shoulder.
The Inquisitor let out a sharp breath, eyes widening.
For the first time, Marek looked mortal.
Blood dripped onto the dirt. The two men stood, panting, both bleeding, both wounded.
Marek tightened his grip on his sword. "You won't stop, will you?"
Valen met his gaze. "Never."
Marek closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, they were clear.
"Then I have no choice."
He raised his sword.
So did Valen.
They moved at the same time.
A single strike.
Steel flashed.
One sword fell.
One man stood.
The other collapsed.
---
Marek lay on his back, his breath ragged. His sword was gone, knocked from his grip. Blood spread beneath him, soaking into the dirt.
Valen stood over him, sword in hand, his own wounds screaming in protest.
Marek coughed, a weak chuckle escaping his lips. "You finally won."
Valen didn't speak.
Marek's eyes flickered toward the sky. "I used to believe we were righteous," he murmured. "That the Light was pure."
Valen knelt beside him. "And now?"
Marek exhaled, a faint smile on his lips. "Now I see… the Light casts shadows too."
His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched, as if trying to hold onto something unseen.
Then, with a final, shuddering breath—
Marek was gone.
The crowd remained silent. Watching.
Waiting.
Valen slowly rose to his feet. His body ached. His vision swam.
Then Serra was at his side. "It's over," she whispered.
Valen looked down at Marek's lifeless body.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he believed that.