The Great Legend died just minutes ago as a result of the Betrayer’s Kiss.
It wasn’t the kind of ending anyone expected.
Storms gathered in the distance, as though the sky itself mourned the loss. Across the war-torn plains of Eldros, fires flickered and dying embers whispered stories only the wind could carry. Soldiers who had moments ago been ready to charge fell to their knees. Even the enemies, those twisted by blood-oaths and war magic, stood stunned, their weapons lowered. The battle had not ended with victory. It ended with silence.
Word spread quickly: The Legend is gone.
Some called him Arion, the Lion of the West. Others knew him as the Flameborn, the one who could summon fire from stone, laughter from grief, and hope from the edge of despair. He was a warrior, yes—but also a poet, a father, a brother to many, and a symbol to all. His name was etched into the walls of a thousand cities. Songs bore his name like a prayer. And now—he was no more.
Just minutes ago, he’d stood atop the Ridge of Mourning, his crimson cloak whipping behind him, hair matted with the sweat of battle and the ache of memory. He was tired. Not just from the fight, but from years of carrying the world.
And that was when she approached.
She had been at his side for years—Serenya of the Moonborn Isles. They had fought together, bled together, saved each other more times than anyone could count. She had been his second. His shield when he faltered. His most trusted.
So when she stepped forward, no one questioned her.
They should have.
She leaned in as he removed his helm. His eyes met hers—fierce, tired, full of stories. She touched his cheek gently. “For everything you’ve done,” she whispered. “For everything you were.”
And then she kissed him.
It was a soft kiss, filled with something bitter and final. His eyes widened. A gasp escaped his lips—not from pleasure or emotion—but from pain. There was something on her lips. A poison, ancient and untraceable, brewed in the dead lands of Kireth. A kiss born not of love, but of betrayal.
He staggered back, one hand at his throat. The fire in his veins, the strength of legends, flickered. “Why?” he managed to ask, even as the world around him dimmed.
Her eyes brimmed with tears, but there was steel beneath them. “Because the world cannot move forward in your shadow. You were too bright. Too much. Nothing could grow under you. I loved you, Arion. I truly did. But the age of heroes must end.”
He dropped to one knee, then collapsed.
And just like that, the legend was gone.
The news broke across the continents like a wave of sorrow. Fires were lit in his honor. Cities rang their bells. The great dragons of the north roared into the skies, their mourning cries heard for miles.
But not everyone wept.
Some, like the Silent Kings of the Deep Mire, raised their cups in quiet celebration. They had waited lifetimes for the Lion to fall. Others began plotting, knowing the balance of power had shifted irreversibly. Without Arion, who would stop the Night Syndicate from crossing the Silver Sea? Who would stand against the Machine Courts of Zhal?
Back on the Ridge, Serenya knelt beside his body, unmoved by the gathering storm. She closed his eyes with trembling fingers. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I loved you too much to let you become a god.”
His sword lay beside him, still glowing faintly, as though it hadn’t yet accepted his death. The blade was bound to him by oath and soul. And now, it waited—for someone worthy, or for vengeance.
In the hours that followed, his body was taken by the Wind Priests to the Vault of Eternity, a sacred place where only the greatest were laid to rest. But questions swirled like crows over a battlefield. How could he fall? Who could do such a thing?
The truth, as always, was more complicated.
Because Serenya had not acted alone.
There were whispers of a council—a secret gathering of leaders, mages, and strategists who believed the world could not evolve under the shadow of a single myth. They called themselves The Eclipse. To them, Arion was not just a man—he was a symbol of stagnation. His every victory kept the people from growing, relying on his fire instead of lighting their own.
Serenya had been their weapon. And their sacrifice.
Because even now, as she walked away from his grave, she knew she would never be remembered as a hero. Only as the woman who killed the greatest man who ever lived.
The Betrayer.
But the story did not end there.
In the northern wastes, where snow buried secrets and time moved strangely, a child was born with eyes of gold and hair like flame. He did not cry when he was born. He simply looked at the world—calm and knowing.
Legends, after all, never truly die.
They are reborn.
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