The figure was gone.

  Vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing but scorched earth and the lingering echo of its voice. The presence that had shoved Divine Eos into him without consent, without warning, had disappeared into the mist like a ghost retreating into shadow.

  Draven lay there—his chest cracked open and leaking light.

  He didn’t remember falling. He just remembered the sound. That low hum—cosmic and cold—when the divine force sank into him like a blade made of sunlight. It hadn’t healed him. It had devoured him from the inside.

  Now, all that remained was pain.

  His vision blurred. He could barely move. His body was heavy, molten, as if his bones had been replaced with burning stone. The Divine Eos was tearing through him like wildfire in a dry forest, reshaping him without mercy.

  He gasped, each breath a knife in his lungs.

  What did you do to me…?

  The ground was cold, but his blood felt like it was boiling. The divine fire surged, refusing to be contained, clawing at his ribs like something alive. He pressed his hands into the dirt, fingers twitching. He had to move. He had to rise. But everything in him screamed no.

  Then came the sound.

  Soft at first. A low whisper of footsteps through ash.

  Draven forced his eyes open. Through the haze of smoke and blood, he saw them—Nyx warriors. Shadows given form, gliding over the battlefield like phantoms. Their armor gleamed darkly beneath the fractured sky, blades pulsing with that eerie violet glow.

  They were coming for him.

  Not to capture.

  To finish what the world had started.

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  Not yet…

  His breath shuddered. His heart slammed against his chest like it was trying to escape. But he wasn’t ready. He was still unraveling. The power inside him was chaos, barely held together by threads of will.

  One of the Nyx warriors broke from the ranks, stepping forward. Its form shimmered, obsidian and void. No face. No soul. Just purpose.

  Draven reached for the sword at his side, fingers trembling.

  As soon as he touched it—crack.

  A pulse of divine energy surged through his arm. The blade disintegrated into dust. Fragments of steel floated around him before vanishing into ash, as if reality itself refused to let him hold anything less than what he had become.

  Silence followed.

  Even the Nyx halted.

  They watched. Studied. Waiting for something—perhaps the end. Perhaps a miracle.

  Then, the burning began again.

  A core of white-hot flame ignited deep in his chest. He cried out, clutching at the pain—but there was no stopping it now. Light erupted from his spine, from his palms, from his throat.

  His hand moved on its own.

  Light poured into the air before him, coalescing into a shape—raw and unstable at first, a storm of fire and ether. Then, slowly, it began to forge something solid. A blade. No hilt, no steel. Just fire. Just essence.

  A weapon birthed from agony.

  From divine violation.

  From wrath.

  He gripped it—and the moment he did, the fire stilled. It accepted him. Or maybe he had accepted it.

  His breath calmed.

  But something inside him whispered:

  This is not your power. This is not your fate. This is the curse you didn’t choose.

  The first Nyx warrior lunged.

  Draven didn’t think. He moved.

  His body screamed with pain, but the blade was weightless in his hand. He swung.

  Light exploded.

  The Nyx warrior was consumed, flame wrapping around its form, turning darkness to cinders. No scream. Just silence—erased in an instant.

  Draven staggered, eyes wide. He hadn’t meant to do that. Not like that.

  But there was no time to question. Another came. Then another.

  The next clash was chaos.

  He ducked a blade, brought his fire down in a wide arc, cleaving through shadow like it was paper. A howl tore through the air as the Nyx warrior fell, its form dissolving into spirals of black smoke.

  Each strike came faster.

  And each time the fire obeyed.

  No, not obeyed. It hungered.

  The Purge of Eos.

  That was what this was. Not light. Not healing.

  Annihilation.

  Another warrior rushed him, blade aimed for his throat. Draven twisted, letting the flame in his palm spiral outward. The fire danced like a living thing, snaking around the Nyx being’s blade and swallowing it whole before lashing upward into its chest.

  The scream this time was audible—and it was human.

  Draven froze for just a second.

  Was it human once?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He just kept swinging.

  Bodies turned to ash.

  Shadows scattered.

  The battlefield burned.

  And in the middle of it all—stood him.

  Draven.

  No longer on the ground.

  No longer crawling.

  He stood now, back straight, fire coiling around him like a cloak. His chest still burned, but it was steady. No longer wild. It had found a place inside him. Maybe not peace—but a rhythm.

  Rain broke above.

  Heavy. Cold. Cleansing.

  It hissed against his shoulders, steam rising where it touched the divine flame. Blood and ash ran down his face. The storm had returned, as if the sky itself had come to bear witness.

  Draven exhaled.

  He looked at his hand—the one holding the sword.

  It didn’t feel like salvation.

  It felt like a warning.

  He turned toward the smoldering horizon, the battlefield quiet now except for distant thunder.

  “They’re still out there,” he whispered. “And I’m not done.”

  But deep in his chest, the divine fire pulsed—and with it came the echo of that shadowy voice.

  This was never a gift. It was always a sentence.