Dust swirled across the broken stones of the tower, the battlefield silent except for the ragged breaths of two warriors locked in a final clash. Kaylean raised his palm and whispered a spell of wind, dispersing the haze that covered the aftermath. As the veil lifted, the sight before him stilled his heart.
Thayrion and Valekhar stood motionless, fists still pressed into one another—Thayrion’s burning into Valekhar’s chest, Valekhar’s knuckles firm against Thayrion’s chin. Blood dripped slowly from their mouths and noses, staining the cracked floor beneath them.
A single step from Kaylean broke the moment.
Both Thayrion and Valekhar collapsed at once.
"Thayrion!" Kaylean cried, rushing forward. He caught Thayrion before he hit the ground, cradling his limp body. "Speak to me, brother. Are you alright?"
With great effort, Thayrion opened his eyes. "I have no mana left... nor strength," he said with a faint smile. "What of... Valekhar?"
Kaylean turned to see Valekhar unconscious, his chest rising and falling faintly. "He still lives."
A figure emerged from the shadows—the Seer of Thalas’zir. Her eyes shimmered with truth as she spoke. "The vision has come to pass. The curse is broken. The throne now calls its rightful heir."
Valekhar was carried to a sacred chamber for healing. Thayrion too was tended with care, and in the days that followed, both began to mend.
On the third day, Thayrion walked alone into the royal gardens. Mana crystals along the dungeon walls bathed the area in golden light. A large hole above let the sunlight pour in, touching ancient stone with warmth that had long been forgotten. Flowers bloomed. The kingdom breathed again.
Voices echoed behind him. As he turned, he saw kings and queens of every race gathered—the Elven rulers, the Dwarf Lord Baelor, the Human High King, and villagers from Elharya.
"Kaylean," Thayrion called. "Come, walk with me."
His brother in arms smiled and took his arm, helping him toward the great hall.
"Why all this?" Thayrion asked.
"Because," Kaylean said with a grin, "you will be crowned King of Thalor’vandor."
The coronation day arrived.
Thayrion stood proud, his aura radiant. The Seer stepped forward, placing the crown Baelor had crafted upon his brow—gold infused with light runes, pulsing with ancient life. The hall roared with applause as the races of Elharya bowed in unison.
Thayrion spoke. "From this day, we are no longer divided—Elf, Dwarf, Human. We are kin. I vow to stand for justice, for unity, and for every soul that calls this realm home."
The hall quieted as a familiar figure entered—Valekhar.
He approached the throne, his head bowed low. "Thayrion... I seek your forgiveness—for the shadow I let consume me."
Thayrion stepped down and placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. "I forgive you. Not for what you did—but for who you were before. Rise, Valekhar, and take your place beside me."
Cheers erupted. The darkness had lifted.
As the celebration continued, the High Elven Queen gifted Thayrion a new armor forged from Lumenya light—pure and unmarred by curses. Baelor unveiled a suit of Shadow Armor for Valekhar, forged with runes of balance and loyalty.
Kaylean pledged himself as General of the Kingdom’s Army. The Seer became Royal Oracle. The alliances were sealed with feast and joy, wine and dance.
At sunset, the time came to open the sealed gate—hidden for generations.
The Seer led them to the ancient wall. "Your blood, Thayrion. It must touch the runes."
Thayrion cut his palm, letting his blood drip onto the stone. The wall trembled. Runes shimmered to life in glowing yellow, forming a door that slowly opened. Warm sunlight poured through.
Beyond lay the untouched forests of Velthalas, the misty peaks of the Dwarven realms, and in the east—Elharya, glimmering like a memory made real.
A path lined with blooming flowers stretched outward. Hope had returned.
And in that whisper of wind and light, the soul of Elharya breathed once more.
The End.
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