The retreat from Floranthia was a grim, silent procession through the twisted trees of the Black Briar. Malakor carried a grimacing Sylvanus with preternatural grace, while Lirien kept watch on their new prisoner, her heart a tangled knot of warring instincts. But a heavy dread settled in Kaelen Vor's chest, a weight far greater than any axe he could wield. He stopped, massive hooves digging into the dark earth.

He turned his great horned head toward the bruised twilight sky. Empty. "Where is he?" his voice rumbled, more felt than heard.

Malakor followed his gaze. "He will follow. He always does."

But ancient instincts screamed otherwise. With a final grunted order for Malakor to get Sylvie to safety, Kaelen charged back toward the carnage, crashing through undergrowth like a living avalanche.

The scene he stumbled upon froze his blood. High above, a flash of gold and white—Taryndor, beautiful and treacherous, driving a shimmering dagger into Rytharion's back. A coward's blow. The Shadow King went limp, beginning to fall from the sky.

A sound ripped from Kaelen's throat that was not a roar, but a world-ending bellow of pure rage. He moved with the speed of a landslide, catching his king before he hit the ground, cradling the limp body against his armored chest. Gently laying Rytharion down, Kaelen felt the world turn gold as cracking, shimmering energy erupted from his core—a visible aura of protective fury.

Taryndor landed with a smirk that vanished as Kaelen slammed into him. It was no battle of finesse, but primal brutality. Kaelen fought like a force of nature, each swing meant to crush, while Taryndor relied on ethereal grace and precision. With a feinted strike, Taryndor's sword found Kaelen's thigh, sinking deep into the thick muscle.

The coppery scent of minotaur blood filled the air as Kaelen buckled, but on the ground, Rytharion's eyes snapped open—glowing crimson with feral light, intricate purple sigils igniting across his skin. The Shadow King rose, wings spreading to their full terrifying span before vanishing into shadows.

He reappeared behind Taryndor as a vortex of darkness, claws and fangs shredding with berserker fury until the golden prince fled, a streak of cowardice retreating into the distance. The glow in Rytharion's eyes dimmed slowly as he hauled Kaelen's massive frame over his shoulders, supporting his injured friend back toward the Obsidian Spire.

Inside the Spire's infirmary, lit by soft luminescent moss, Kaelen dropped onto a bed beside Sylvie, who pouted with a broken leg. As a healer cleaned his bleeding thigh, Sylvie leaned close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Kai... I... fuck. I imprinted. On Malakor." Before Kaelen could respond, the healer stepped away—and the new maid entered with fresh bandages. Instantly, the fierce warrior vanished, replaced by an awkward giant with twitching ears and a throat suddenly too tight for words. "You," he managed, voice an octave lower than usual. "Bandages. Good."