The moment of truth had come.

For eons, Asclepius, Grandmaster of the Pale Serpents, had toiled to reach this stage. He had served under his god as high priest of Nastrond, having been raised since birth to serve the eternal dragon, Lord Nidhogg. His devotion, sharpened over centuries, had never wavered; the lich had sacrificed countless on his master’s altar, delved into the darkest lore of reality, and gazed into the abyss of magic.

Even when gods and men buried his city and slew his fellow cultists, the lich never lost hope. The Aesir were ancient, but his master was eternal. Like a serpent shedding his skin, he would return, to deliver the gift of immortality to all. Asclepius had carried the torch of knowledge through the ages; kings rose and fell, but he remained. Even the Pale Serpents brotherhood was but the latest incarnation of Nastrond’s priesthood. A cult worshiping immortality itself, the Great Work.

Now, as he flew over the burning city of Lyonesse, Asclepius knew the time had come. The last step to complete the Great Work.

These pitiful Calamity worshipers, fools bound by fate… he looked down on them, puppets as they were, unable to break free from their chains. He had shattered their bridge, immolated their Fianna leaders, killed and reanimated countless with the gift of undeath. Yet they foolishly burned these holy grounds, on which Nastrond once stood before the gods buried it.

Even Odin had shown up to spoil the scenery, struggling to contain the fire giant Surtr. Asclepius somewhat admired his determination to live, but couldn’t stand his selfishness. Life and undeath were gifts, meant to be shared with everyone; not hoarded for a small elite.

Selflessness. That had always been the lich’s motivation. A great love for all mortal beings, regardless of their origin. No matter the sacrifices, his goal was to benefit the greatest number of people.

Far, far away from the city, he sensed his dark master’s essence flare up. The signal to begin the last ritual.

His new god had delivered unto him the supreme honor. To usher in the Age of Undeath, and end this cursed era of mortals with one final spell.

His phylactery, kept within Nastrond’s cathedral, would be the focus. Asclepius would run the ritual, giving up his very essence to complete the Great Work. Just as he had sacrificed so many on the altar of knowledge, his unlife was but a small price to pay.

In a way, he would finally obtain the immortality he had been promised.

“Yes, the time has come!” the lich chanted triumphantly, channeling his dark master’s greatest spell, “For the age of men and gods to end… and the age of undeath to begin! An age that never ends! Behold our Great Work, gods and mortals, and tremble in awe!”

As he cast the spell, the runes and symbols drawn beneath Lyonesse’s grounds lit up. Leylines of Alkahest, spread by countless groups to form a circle encompassing the entire city, activated at once.

[Forever Serpent Ritual] initiated.

His body burnt.

It had always burnt, since the moment his hand emerged from the witch pyre that the inquisitors had made for him. He hadn’t screamed; he only cursed the men who murdered his wife, and destroyed the only place he could ever call home. Yet his most bitter words were for King Siegfried, who watched him die in the flames with a smile on his face. He had only ever seen his bastard brother as a threat to his petty throne, and he was glad to see him turned to ashes.

Medraut’s unlife had been fueled by pain, in more ways than one.

The Fire Lord Surtr had granted him the opportunity for revenge, to fulfill Asclepius’ curse on Avalon and Medraut’s treacherous family. But the Calamity was a harsh taskmaster, who wanted his champion to never forget what he fought for. The flames that fueled him also reminded Medraut of the pyre, day after day.

Critical health! Critical health!

Yet even the flames paled before Walter’s venom. It was as if rats devoured his body alive, slowly, painfully. He could sense the poison seep into his very soul, a vile force dragging his mind into eternal darkness.

But now, none of this mattered. Medraut’s quest had reached its end.

His steps echoed in Nastrond’s cathedral, an executioner stepping towards the gallows. The ground trembled, as Lyonesse collapsed outside. The blackened root of Yggdrasil awaited him, fueled by the fouled waters of life.

The Death Knight recognized his old friend Asclepius’ phylactery in a corner, pulsating with eldritch magic, and felt a little remorse at the sight. Nothing that would alter his resolve though; the flames had burnt all doubt away years ago.

Even Walter, the brightest boy Medraut ever knew, couldn’t stop him. The Death Knight wished he could have lived a long, happy life; their days at the Black Citadel had been the happiest in his life, and Medraut cherished these memories. But this horrendous universe would never let them live in peace.

It had to go.

As he watched the root, Medraut thought about all that was. All that is. And all that will ever be.

“Let it all burn!”

The Death Knight raised his fiery sword, preparing to incinerate all of creation.

“Stop…”

Her voice made him flinch.

Medraut glanced away from the root, and at the well of life.

Her ethereal ghost floated above the waters, observing him.

She was exactly like in his memories, right before her accident. A vision of beauty and compassion, a noble princess who had looked upon a halfbreed squire, and still found the strength to love him.

“My love…” Cywyllog’s ghost asked, her voice breaking in sadness. “Why?”

“You are not…” Medraut took a step back, so shocked, that the flames fueling him wavered a bit. “You are gone. I saw you die. I saw you die twice. Even your soul...”

“Walter…” she had the same voice, the same rattle, struggling to make words. “Brought me… back… halfway… didn’t have time… to finish...”

“It’s an illusion,” Medraut insisted. If Tye could poison an undead, he could certainly play with his mind. Distract him just as he was within an inch of starting Ragnarok. “A cruel joke to torment me!”

But then… could he have truly done the impossible? Brought back a soul thought gone? It seemed insane, but if anybody could do it, it would have been Walter. She seemed so real to him; she had the same bearing, the same energy, the same expressions. It seemed so real.

No matter. Whether she was real or a cruel illusion, it changed nothing.

“It changes nothing,” Medraut told himself, turning back towards the root, the source of all suffering. “It has to be done. For everyone’s sake.”

He raised his claymore once more, but Cywyllog moved in his path, causing him to flinch.

“No…” she whispered, her arms extended. “No…”

“Step aside,” the Death Knight asked, his voice breaking.

Critical health! Critical health!

Even as he spoke, he felt Walter’s poison devour his body from within; he only had a few minutes. He had to cut the root now, and yet his hands refused to move.

“Why…” Cywyllog rattled. She didn’t judge him, but she seemed saddened still. “Why?”

“This is the only way for us to be free,” Medraut said. “Free from this endless cycle of pain and suffering.”

What was worth preserving, in this world where brothers killed each other, the gods cared nothing for men, and nothing ever mattered? Everywhere Medraut had looked, he had only seen misery. Calamities, Aesir, humans… no one ever won. Ragnarok left no winners, only survivors, who would repeat the same mistakes, over and over again.

“Ever since I was born, this world has been tormenting me,” Medraut admitted. “Every time I cared for someone, or something, it all burned.”

“The world hated… you… so you… hated it back…”

Yes. “Didn’t you?”

She shook her head.

Why? Why, after everything they both went through? He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand.

“Step aside,” Medraut ordered, gathering his resolve. Even if it was his true wife, his duty trumped his feelings. “Or I will cut you down too.”

She didn’t move, “You have… kill me… first…”

“Why? Why protect this world? Why do you cling to it still?”

“Because it was worth it… for being with you.”

Medraut crumbled at these words.

Immediately, the weight of his crimes, all his sins, all the burdens he had carried for decades suddenly became unbearable. They crushed him like heavy stones falling on his shoulders, bringing him to his knees. His empty eyes let out embers.

“Don’t cry…” she said, her ethereal fingers touching him, in spite of the flames. Her hands felt so warm, but unlike Surtr’s fire, they soothed the pain. “I’m here…”

How could a creature like him, be loved by someone like her?

In a moment of despair, Medraut tried to cut her down, to set the root ablaze. But his hands refused to obey him. Something stronger than his hate kept him from slaying this… this perfect, immaculate creature. He felt like a demon, repelled by holy light.

Cywyllog calmly put another hand on his sword, and he dropped it. The malevolent artifact lost its luster, close to the root, yet unable to reach it.

“Forgive me,” Medraut apologized, her warm hands around his shoulders. “Forgive me…”

Medraut still hated the Nine Realms, and wanted to watch them burn for all he went through... but he couldn’t bring himself to cut down his wife for it. Not after she died twice before his eyes. He couldn’t stand the idea of watching her die again, nor doing the deed himself. He just couldn’t.

He had failed. So many sacrifices, so much blood spilled… and in the end, the Death Knight couldn’t do it. Not at this cost.

“It’s okay…” Cywyllog smiled, holding him against her. “I will never… give up… on you...”

Medraut didn’t respond, as his HP count reached zero, consumed by Walter’s poison. His hesitation had cost him his life.

The flames fueling Medraut were extinguished, his bones dissolving. As darkness overtook his consciousness, the Death Knight felt the pain vanish, replaced with a sensation of happiness, of peaceful oblivion. He let himself die, his determination shattered.

But instead of keeping Medraut in her arms, Cywyllog suddenly pulled back and looked down on him, her face morphing from sadness to satisfaction. And her features changed; from the face he had loved with all his heart, to that of a dark elf, whose eyes shone with malevolence.

“You are not…”

But it was too late. His body destroyed by Walter’s venom, his hateful flames extinguished, Medraut’s soul returned to the cycle. Only his armor and sword remained behind.

And Laufey Sorrowsinger’s smile grew wider.

She had won.

After so long, Hel had what she wanted. Her rebellious thrall, kneeling before her.

Not by his choice, though. Her Earthlander—whose name she could hardly remember—had nailed both of Walter’s legs with his arrows; cutting both body parts at the knees. Yet in spite of the pain and helplessness, the necromancer still had the gall to glare at Hel with fury.

“I find this appearance displeasing, my thrall,” the goddess said, stepping towards the undead horror before her. She grabbed his head with both hands, even as he attempted to bite her like some snake. This foolish defiance frustrated her, but it only made her desire deeper.

“If you like to play it rough…” she mused, seizing both ends of his jaw, and ripping his body in half. Beneath this gigantic husk, she found what she wanted at the core.

Walter’s human body, forming the core of this horrifying construct.

With divine strength, she extirpated him from his shell, like a baby from his mother’s womb. He was like in her memories, defiant, hateful, determined. Somehow, he still thought he had a chance to fight back.

What a pleasure it was, to feel his skin against her own.

“Shush…” Hel said, restraining him and holding her close to his chest. “Just enjoy the show.”

Her Earthlander hound observed the scene, an automaton emptied of his will.

Come to think of it… she didn’t need anyone else now. Once she reincarnated new souls, Hel would make sure none of them had any will of their own. Her thrall would be more than enough.

“The next world could be just us, my love,” Hel told Walter, cradling him against her bosom, even as the surface collapsed. “You and I, alone in a silent world. Or maybe we could do as Lif and Thrasir are supposed to do and repopulate the Earth with our brood. I know you disdain the act of love, but I will teach you the finer details.”

“Die…” Walter hissed, unable to free himself. Deprived of his magic and godlike powers, he was but a mere man. The only man Hel ever desired, but still, no match for her.

“We both know that is no longer in the cards.” Not that it ever was. “You have lost.”

It hadn’t gone as well as Hel wanted, but it worked out fine in the end. Odin, that fool, had found enough bravery to defy her decree and challenge Surtr. Not that it would save anyone—she had never seen the king of the fire giant die by anything less than the whole Nine Realms collapsing on him. But Medraut had entered the cathedral, covered in deadly wounds. He would put history back on track, and then perish before he could haunt the next iteration.

Meanwhile, her Death Heroes worked tirelessly to destroy any remaining undead. Their plague would not survive Ragnarok.

Hel could only ever tolerate one.

“You are still thinking about them, are you not?” Hel asked, stroking Walter’s cheek. “You should be thinking of me, my love. I will be your world. It was meant to be.”

“I hate you,” Walter replied, his voice breaking with anger.

“Hate is not the opposite of love,” Hel replied calmly. “It is apathy. I know what you saw when you looked into my father’s face. Your true feelings made manifest. You ‘hate’ me because deep down, you knew that you would always come back to my embrace. No matter how much you resisted.”

How could it be otherwise? They, the twin keepers of the cycle, united forever. This was her reward for all these eons toiling to serve Fate. A sense of completion, a companion that would make her whole.

She would feel alone no more.

“You are sorely misguided, sister,” a voice said, coming from the cathedral. “He feels nothing. I saw it in his heart.”

Hel glanced at the cathedral, where a Banshee emerged. This loathsome half-breed of Laufey Sorrowsinger. Her father Loki always had the poorest tastes.

“Although I’d love nothing more than watch you suffer, Walter,” Laufey told the necromancer, delighted at his current state, “I hate this current state even more. I tricked Medraut, as you desired, so fulfill your oath to me and free me from this bondage.”

“You appeal to him, instead of your own family?” Hel mused. It did explain why the world hadn’t collapsed yet, much to her disappointment.

“Sister, we both know that word matters not to you.”

“Yet I will fulfill this wish myself, my sister,” Hel said, being in a cheerful mood today. Let it not be said that she was without mercy. “Kill her, my hound.”

Before Laufey could even react, a black arrow pierced her through the chest, destroying her ghost.

“A wasted effort, my thrall,” Hel told her soulmate. “Killing Surtr’s champion changes nothing. I will have my hound finish—”

There was magic in the air.

Hel could sense every soul dying on the Nine Realms, which was how she could guide them to the Nine Realms. Yet, in spite of all the massacre above, it was as if… as if the souls stayed anchored to the realm of men. Was it her beloved’s necromancy, keeping the dead—

“Yes,” Walter whispered, interrupting her trail of thoughts. “I see that now. Why I saw your face.”

Hel immediately focused back on her thrall, smiling back. Finally, as the world crumbled around them, he saw the light.

His hands moved to her cheek, cold and yet warm too.

“Your blood,” Walter said with adoration. “You are the perfect ingredient to complete my Great Work.”

Before Hel could even ask what he meant, something changed in his gaze.

“You are all fools.” It was Walter’s face, but the eyes belong to Nidhogg, the Forever Serpent. The cold, hateful dragon, who had tormented the Nine Realms through endless cycles so he alone could survive. A selfish beast that would commit any sin to cheat death. “You, Medraut, Gwenhyfar, Odin. You let your feelings get in the way of what must be done, distract you from your goal. Even on the verge of victory, you look away.”

Look away from what? This place?

This place…

“No,” Hel whispered. “The amount needed…”

Yet as she looked around, she only saw further confirmation. This vile tomb had been built amidst deposits of Alkahest, enough to fuel an entire nation of alchemists. And the bloodshed above provided all the necessary souls.

Hel immediately attempted to teleport them back to her castle, but her divine magic fizzled out.

Spell negated by [Forever Serpent Ritual].

Her Walter was transforming the entire city into a [Necromancer’s Stone]!

Already, crimson crystals surrounded Nastrond’s cathedral, covering the entrance and the entire building in a coating of Philosopher’s Stone. Crystals covered the hole in the ceiling, sealing the buried city and spreading to the one above.

“I could never defeat you in a battle,” Walter admitted, his tone quiet and smug. “But I knew how you thought. You would never dare to approach me until you believed that the stone was destroyed; and when you thought yourself victorious, you would spend too much time rubbing your victory to my face to notice the stage I set.”

That cheeky… he distracted her, using her feelings as a lure to blind her to his bear trap’s jaws.

“We will all be trapped inside,” Hel said, slightly afraid. “You and I, forever.”

She could live with that.

“This husk is but a puppet of my will. My [Necromancer’s Stone], my phylactery and the ship of my soul, remains intact.”

“My hound shattered it,” Hel reminded him, caressing his cheek to remind him of his powerlessness.

But as Walter grinned, doubt crept in the goddess’ heart.

She grabbed a fragment of the stone laying on the ground, near the husk of his body. Her Earthlander hound watched, and for a second, as her face twisted into fear, she could see a glint of satisfaction behind his empty eyes.

The fragment gave off the same aura as the [Necromancer’s Stone]—it even included souls trapped within the crystal to make it believable—but it had no true power. It only ever had the illusion of it.

“A fake,” Hel realized, horrified. “A counterfeit.”

“You are old, powerful, and ancient… but me?”

Walter approached his lips to Hel’s own, his face twisting into that of a voracious undead as they met.

“I am forever.”

And with their last kiss, Walter’s body crumbled to dust, leaving Hel to scream in fury as her body turned to gemstone.

Odin had come.

As she fought side by side with her knights, cutting her way through cultists and monsters, Gwen looked at the sky. The Allfather himself fought Surtr, and although his body burned and his valkyries fell like flies, he managed to slowly push the Calamity back into his fiery realm.

Why? Why did he come now, after Hel warned him not to interfere? Why risk everything to fight in a battle he knew that he was fated to lose?

A warm, godlike voice answered in her head.

“He listened.”

She had once asked Odin if he would go to Valhalla should he die. He seemed determined to find out.

The sight of the supreme god fighting on their side emboldened her men, pushing back the monsters who had taken over the city’s streets. Gwen couldn’t believe it, but… they may actually win this.

However, although she fought for all living beings, her heart yearned to find her siblings. Reports from scouts said they had seen them fighting the Fianna and Walter’s vile second-in-command, north of her position.

Hastening herself, Gwenhyfar carved a bloody path forward, her sacred sword slashing through flesh like butter. There was no skill, no words exchanged; just a whirlwind of blood and savagery. Her intuition, which had served her for years, guided her towards her goal, even as the numbers of knights following her dwindled. Until she was alone.

When she arrived at the battlefield, she found an absolute bloodbath.

The blood reached her ankles, corpses burning everywhere; their piles assembled into morbid candles. Fianna, monsters, undead, humans… their bodies had been cut into pieces, to the point she could hardly recognize any of them. She quickly noticed a few survivors though.

A bloodsoaked Arthur was busy fighting Hagen of Vendemar, while Morgane bombarded both with fire spells. The Dullahan exchanged blade clashes with Gwen’s brother, wielding a shining katana capable of resisting strikes from Excalibur. Takeru was nowhere to be seen, and the headless corpse of the fourth Death Hero drowned in his own blood.

It seemed the Dullahan had decided not to go down gently. His mace was still caved in the Death Hero swordsman’s face, Hagen having stolen his Sacred Weapon. While he couldn’t access its full power due to not being an Earthlander, its indestructible nature allowed Hagen to resist assaults from Excalibur. However, fighting two opponents was too much for him, the Dullahan struggling to keep Arthur back while Morgane bombarded both with spells, uncaring about friendly fire. Arthur’s immunity protected him, but the callousness of the tactic made Gwen sick.

When they noticed their sibling, the two remaining Death Heroes’ eyes widened in shock, while Hagen used the brief window of opportunity to force Arthur back. Instead of saying anything, Gwenhyfar charged, her sword raised at her siblings.

“Betrayal!” the maddened prince snarled at his sister, all hint of sanity gone. He rushed at her like a maddened beast, Excalibur raised. “Betrayal!”

Hagen moved in the path, their swords colliding. “I will keep the princeling occupied,” the Dullahan started barking orders to the princess. “Kill the mage.”

Fighting side by side with this vile criminal sickened Gwenhyfar, but necessity knew no laws.

Morgane, her moment of surprise passed, answered with violence. She cast a volley of arrows of light at her sister, Gwen leaping to the side to dodge. “Morgane, throw down your arms!” the princess pleaded. “I wish you no harm!”

“Then help me kill him!” Morgane hissed, Hagen managing to push back Arthur now that he had no artillery support to worry about.

“If we lose, the world ends!”

“I don’t care,” Morgane hissed. “You didn’t know how it felt… to always live in you and Arthur’s shadow.”

“And you hated me so much for it, that you would rather see the world burn than fight by my side?” Gwen asked with a sad tone. Her half-sister unleashed a potent icicle the size of a spear at her, the princess deflecting with her sword. She channeled holy energies through it, her [Paladin] radiance drowning out Hel’s corrupt influence. “I never hated Arthur. Envied him, yes, but he was always my brother. How could you let Hel do this to him, Morgane? Your own family—”

“We are not family!” Morgane snarled, making her sister flinch. “You always had everything, while I… I had to claw my way up, all to feed on your scraps! Hel gave me a chance to reach the light, and I took it.”

Gwenhyfar briefly paused, her shoulders lowering in sadness. “Was the goodness I saw in you nothing but an illusion?”

Her sister responded with a glare of utter hatred.

“[Enhanced Superflare]!”

Morgane joined both hands, and the street exploded in a blaze of energy.

“If that is how you feel,” Gwen said, her hands tightening around her sword in anger. “Then we are done talking.”

The [Amulet of Avalon] shielded her from the spell, as it always did.

As the princess of Avalon emerged from the destruction unharmed, Morgane’s eyes widened in shock. Even with Hel’s powers, she was no Walter Tye. Before her half-sister could even react, Gwen closed the gap and aimed for her face.

Critical hit!

A second later, Morgane fell to the ground, body and head forever separated.

The sight made Gwenhyfar sad for a second, but her heart turned to ice.

The sister she loved had only existed in her mind.

She turned around to see her brother’s duel with Hagen, the Dullahan holding his own, but unable to truly find an opening. Arthur had been a powerful swordsman, even if he relied on his invulnerability, but his new form had enhanced his strength tenfold.

Still, the sight of his sister arriving to help save his enemy seemed to inflame his madness anew.

“I rehearsed this moment for years,” Gwen admitted, readying her blade for the final clash. “But I never thought we would ever fight for real, Arthur.”

Without a word, she and Hagen synchronized; their instincts as warriors, honed from countless battles, allowing them to anticipate the other’s movements.

With a nimble move, Gwen avoided her brother’s wild swing; her sword brushed against his, parrying Excalibur while Hagen double-teamed Arthur with her. A final push of the Dullahan’s blade sent Excalibur flying above their heads, all in the span of a few seconds. The holy blade ended its course on a pile of corpses, a grim sight amidst a vision of hell itself.

Once, Gwen could not have harmed her brother. But as a Death Hero, Gwen was no different from the fateless undead, unbound by destiny. Her blade cut through Arthur’s arm like butter, his hand falling to the ground.

The shock seemed to break Arthur out of his trance for a second, and Hagen exploited the opportunity. He hit the mad prince in the chest with so much force, the hit propelled him to his back.

Arthur fell into a puddle of blood, disarmed and defeated. The Dullahan took a step forward, ready to land the coup de grace.

“Stop!” Gwen ordered, preventing Hagen from finishing off her brother by putting her sword in his way.

“He is gone, fool,” the Dullahan said, “He will never return.”

“Even so, I will not let you harm him.”

Hagen let out a shrug but relented. Gwenhyfar turned towards Arthur, looking into his eyes, hoping to find a trace of her brother. A lingering spark of humanity, that she could bring back to the front.

Then, she sensed Hagen moving right behind her, his weapon raised.

Gwen quickly turned around, impaling the Dullahan with her sword just as he did the same with her.

In the end, it all came down to speed. Wounded and battered by the constant fighting, Hagen had grown slower, his movements impaired by pain. While Gwenhyfar remained relatively fresh and agile.

“We had an alliance,” she rasped. Her sword had pierced the Dullahan’s chest, while his stolen blade had pierced her left shoulder, black blood spilling out. A few inches and the villain would have beheaded her.

“We had,” Hagen mocked her, unrepentant even on the verge of his final death. "I am a simple man, your highness. When I see an opportunity, I seize it."

“Why?” Gwen asked. “Why do this pointless thing?”

“The same reason as always,” the outlaw replied, oddly satisfied with himself. “Loyalty.”

And with these words, the Dullahan’s armor collapsed into dust, his evil spirit exorcised from the realm of men. His stolen blade fell to the ground, buried under gallons of blood.

Loyalty? To Walter Tye? How that insane wizard could inspire such sentiment even in the heart of a wicked man like Hagen was beyond Gwenhyfar’s comprehension. She truly didn’t understand these people.

Maybe that was why they could never coexist.

Still, even with this setback, they were pushing back the Calamities’ forces, and Arthur lived. Perhaps she could find a way to purify them both of Hel—

Gwen’s vision suddenly went white, a cold sensation filling her chest. Arthur let out a wail of pain at the same time, while his sister struggled to stand.

Hel…

Hel was dying?

No. Yes. Not entirely. Something drained Gwen’s life, a dark force leeching her soul, and the divine energies empowering her.

Was it Walter’s doing?

A terrifying howl echoed across the skies, that of thousands of souls screaming in unison. Gwen looked on, astonished, as hordes of ghosts invaded the heavens. The souls of those who perished in the conflict, bound by necromancy in the shape of specters. Their numbers darkened even the flames and the rifts.

They only announced further destruction, for giants and houses suddenly turned crimson, a strange crystal growing on them.

Red stones covering everything, everywhere Gwen looked. A flood of crystal swallowing the city whole, with no escape possible; a wave spreading from Nastrond to Lyonesse above, like a plague.

“And that is why you could never defeat me.”

All along… Gwen thought as she looked at her bleeding brother, a horrifying realization settling in. How Walter Tye used her family love and ideals to make use of her forces, before luring her into the serpent’s den.

“If you let your personal feelings and principles interfere with the greater good, you have already lost.”

“Betrayal...” Arthur hissed.

It was a trap all along.

She touched the amulet of Avalon, which had served her for so long, trying to teleport herself and her brother away. Yet, like when she perished at Medraut’s hands, the device refused to activate.

[Amulet of Avalon] disabled by [Forever Serpent Ritual].

This was the end.

“Gwen…”

She glanced at her brother, a light of sanity in his eyes.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” she said, throwing her weapons away and cradling him in her arms. “I’m here.”

“Gwen…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better sister to you.”

He put his last hand on her own, closing his eyes peacefully, as red crystals covered their bodies. Gwen’s consciousness ceased to function, her arms holding her brother in a final embrace.

A moment frozen in eternity.

A black stone, radiating darkness.

Annie looked at the box’s content, shocked and confused until her attention was drawn at Lyonesse.

She could feel the magic from miles away.

Red stone erupted from below, all over Lyonesse. The strange material, which she recognized as purified Alkahest, spread over buildings, monsters, the walls, everything unfortunate enough to be in the city. Which, with the battle taking place there, was almost every fighter.

As this strange effect expanded, the souls of the dead swirled in a typhoon above the city, a dance of the dead. Blood flowed all over from the countryside, corpses drained of their substance to fuel a display of magic worthy of a dark god. Blood and soul and Alkahest fused, the red stone turning black.

The rifts closed, one after the other. The largest, the one obscuring the sun, forced Calamity Surtr back into his hellish realm with a final roar. Odin the Allfather was nowhere to be seen, either dead or fleeing. Snow and frost extinguished the flames, the winds of winter blowing away the ashes and the smoke.

When at last, the ritual ended half an hour later, it seemed the whole world had fallen silent. Lyonesse had become a crystallized jewel, an ebony stone of dark and terrible beauty.

And Annie looked at it from afar, alone in the dark.

“I don’t understand,” the witch said her voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

“Is it not obvious?”

The voice coming from the stone felt like honey, but beneath it, there was poison.

“I won.”