Durza had never feared death.

  A creature like him—half-man, half-specter—was beyond such a thing. He had been cut down before, only to rise again, stitched together with sorcery and hatred. He had endured. He had always endured.

  Even now, standing before the monstrous thing that had torn through his guards and burned his fortress to ruin, he did not feel fear.

  Only certainty.

  He had faced warriors before. Kings and queens, warlords and assassins. Each one had thought themselves mighty. Each one had fallen. And this beast—this creature—would be no different.

  Lung would die screaming, just as the elf had.

  The Shade moved first.

  Durza was not a man bound by flesh. He was smoke, shadow, and malice, a creature formed from the void. His magic was instantaneous—a whisper, a thought, and reality twisted to obey.

  Darkness exploded from his hands, a torrent of void-born power, black as a starless night. The spell carved through the air, warping the stone walls, reducing everything in its path to decay and oblivion.

  Lung took it head-on.

  The blast engulfed him. For a moment, there was silence.

  Then—a roar split the world in half.

  The flames surged outward, consuming the darkness. Lung emerged, his body wreathed in golden fire, his scales blackened but unyielding. His eyes burned like molten gold, locked onto Durza with something more than rage—something primal.

  He charged.

  The ground shattered beneath his weight, stone crumbling as he lunged with terrifying speed. Durza barely had time to react before Lung’s claws slashed out, aiming for the Shade’s throat.

  Durza twisted, turning to mist, letting the strike pass through. He reappeared behind Lung in an instant, a dozen crimson sigils forming in the air. The spells detonated at once, crashing into Lung’s back like hammers of force and ruin.

  This time, Lung staggered.

  Durza pressed the advantage.

  He wove his next spell in the blink of an eye—a spell that had sundered armies, that had unraveled kings. A spell of entropic ruin.

  It struck Lung in the chest. Magic met flesh.

  And for the first time in the battle—Lung roared in pain.

  His scales cracked. His body shuddered. For all his strength, for all his fire, he was still bound to flesh. Durza grinned, his crimson eyes flashing with triumph.

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  “This is what you bring against me?” the Shade sneered, stepping forward. “You are nothing. Less than nothing.”

  Lung’s growl was low, rumbling, like an earthquake building beneath the surface.

  Then—his Shard adapted.

  Durza did not recognize the change at first.

  Not until the air itself shifted.

  Not until Lung's battered scales rippled, quivering, and then—exploded.

  A storm of shrapnel and fire detonated outward, razor-sharp shards of biometallic scales tearing through the air like a dragon’s breath made solid.

  Durza barely had time to react. He dissolved into shadow a second too late. The shrapnel carved through his form—his robes shredded, his ethereal body torn in places that should not have been possible.

  He reformed, gritting his teeth. His body ached, his power—diminished.

  And then he saw Lung.

  He had grown.

  The thing before him was no longer a man. Not even a warlord or a beast.

  It was a dragon.

  Thirteen feet tall. Wings unfurling, half-formed, his body a fortress of interlocking scales. His arms had grown longer, thicker, his hands ending in curved talons that dripped with something new.

  Not venom.

  Something worse.

  A hunger. A force that ate at magic, that devoured the very essence of sorcery itself.

  Durza cast a spell—a reflex, instinctive. It failed.

  The magic flickered, drained from him the moment it left his fingertips. His body wavered, just for a fraction of a second—but a fraction was all Lung needed.

  The dragon’s hand shot forward.

  Durza tried to vanish, tried to shift into mist—but he was too slow.

  Lung grabbed him.

  Durza had never felt pain.

  Not in centuries. Not since he had shed the weakness of his human form and become something greater.

  But as Lung’s claws dug into him, as the dragon’s crushing grip sank into his very essence, he felt pain now.

  And for the first time—fear.

  His magic should have saved him. He should have been able to twist away, to escape, to unravel and reform elsewhere.

  But something was wrong.

  Something was inside him.

  A presence, vast and unknowable, had forced its way into his mind. Not just Lung. Something else.

  A whisper—not of words, but of meaning.

  YOU HAVE OFFENDED.

  It was not a voice. It was judgment.

  Durza screamed.

  His mind—his very existence—began to unravel.

  Memories, thoughts, the foundation of his being—ripped apart, shredded, devoured. Not by Lung, not by fire—but by something far colder, far more merciless.

  The Escalation Shard was not an entity that understood mercy. It was pure function, pure purpose.

  And Durza’s purpose had ended.

  The Shade, the immortal, the nightmare of Alaga?sia—was torn to nothing.

  Like paper through a shredder.

  Like a candle snuffed out.

  When the last shreds of Durza’s existence faded, Lung stood motionless for a moment.

  The room was silent.

  Then, with slow, heavy steps, he turned.

  And his burning gaze fell upon the girl.

  Arya Drottningu lay slumped in chains, her body too thin, too frail, covered in wounds both physical and unseen.

  She did not react to his presence.

  She barely breathed.

  Lung felt something. Not pity—he was not a creature of pity. Not sympathy. But recognition.

  She had fought.

  She had survived.

  And now, he had come.

  With a snarl, Lung raised his claw and smashed through her chains.

  And for the first time in weeks—Arya was free.