The swordsman pulled his blade free. He did not sheath it. He simply stood there in the sudden, thinning mist as a true ray of sunlight—the first in a century—broke through the canopy and struck the throne.
But as he turned to leave, he did not look back. He had not reclaimed the Citadel. He had not resurrected the dead. He had simply walked into the mist, faced the ghost he had become, and refused to kneel. the misty ruins and the lone swordsman
The sun never truly reached the Misty Ruins. It died in the canopy above, strangled by ancient, gnarled oaks whose roots had long since claimed the crumbling stonework. What light remained was a soft, perpetual twilight—a grey drizzle of luminescence that turned the world into a watercolour painting left out in the rain. The swordsman pulled his blade free
The swordsman leaned in, his breath fogging the stone mask. "No," he agreed. "But I can outlive it." But as he turned to leave, he did not look back
"I am not here to forgive," the swordsman said. His voice was low, raw, unused. "I am here to bury."
Today, he was not running.