The Nameless Heir

"What will you do now, Your Majesty?"

The king of Poseidria drew in a slow breath. His shoulders rose, then settled, the movement steady as if even breathing was measured. No fear in his eyes—just the quiet focus of a man who had already chosen how this ended. No flicker. No doubt.

His fingers tightened on the trident's haft. The leather wrap gave a faint creak, the sound sharp in the silence between them. He twisted the weapon—once, twice—the polished prongs cutting the air in clean arcs before stilling.

When it stopped, the points were leveled at Kael, steady as if anchored to the earth.

His mouth curved, a faint shift against the cold stillness in his gaze.

"Thought so."

The Helm of Darkness bled across his face, shadows locking into place like the jaws of some unseen beast. His tone dropped, each word carrying weight.

"I respect your bravery."

He lifted his blade in return, the tip aligning with the king's heart. Then he moved—fast, closing the distance in a rush that cracked the stone underfoot. His sword came down in a savage, vertical strike.

The king braced, trident rising to meet it. The clash rang out like steel tearing the air, the force driving the king's feet deep into the ground. His knees bent under the pressure, joints straining. Kael pressed harder, shadows curling along the edge of his blade. The king's stance wavered, his front knee buckling further with every heartbeat.

His gaze never left him. In the king's face, he read the struggle—the defiance, the pain, the pride. But in Kael's mind, there was only the strain of resistance—something that needed to snap.

The ground shifted under him.

A spike of mud and water tore upward, jagged and fast. Kael leaned back, the tip scraping across the black steel of the Helm of Darkness before whipping past his face.

Another spike erupted, this one angling for his side. He stepped back. The ground answered with another strike.

Every step triggered another—fast, relentless. He moved quicker, weight shifting and feet sliding over the slick stone, keeping his eyes on the king even as the ground tried to kill him.

Then—pain. A spike cut deep across his leg, forcing him to stagger.

From behind came the low roar of rushing water. He turned, and the wall was already there—rising high, folding inward like it meant to swallow him whole.

Flaming arrows cut through the air. They hit the wave in bursts, and the water exploded into steam, the blast rolling over him in a wave of heat.

Liz had fired them. She'd just saved his life.

The king drove forward, trident aimed for Kael's chest.

Kael's legs were still locked in the water's grip. Moving wasn't an option. He brought his sword up, catching the thrust between the trident's three prongs with a sharp clang.

The king twisted the haft, rolling his wrists with practiced force. The torque bit into Kael's guard, wrenching the sword clean from his hands.

The follow-up came instantly—a wide, horizontal sweep aimed at his head.

He stepped into it, forearm snapping up to catch the strike on his bracer. In the same turn, his right foot tore free from the muck, heel pivoting as he swung it toward the king's head in a sharp, sweeping arc.

The block held, but the force shifted the king's footing, one step sliding in the mud, his stance bending under the push.

His mouth curved in the faintest shadow of a smile.

"Not bad," he said, voice low. "No wonder you're a king."

The man's smile widened. He stepped back in a light leap, trident spinning once in his hands. Then he came forward again, low and fast, the weapon darting out in a sudden point before breaking into a flurry of strikes.

He read the rhythm—one thrust high, a sweep low, a feint into another jab. His body moved without wasted effort, slipping between each strike until, with one sharp twist, he tore himself completely free.

The rain came in thick sheets. The king's pace shifted instantly—faster, sharper. Each step seemed to carry more weight, each swing more bite. The rain fed the ground, the water rising until it pulled at Kael's boots. The currents slid along the ground like living things, circling behind him. He felt them brush against his calves, testing for an opening—trying to wind up around his waist and drag him under.

The king came on again, no pause, no hesitation. Their weapons slammed together in a rhythm that left no space to breathe. Each impact drove Kael's boots deeper into the soaked earth. The weight of the ground clung to him, every step heavier than it should have been—like trying to move across a field of wet clay.

He stopped fighting the drag.

He lifted his sword and drew the edge across his palm. The cut was deep. Blood swelled quickly, heavy and dark, sliding between his fingers before spilling into the rainwater. It spread in slow tendrils through the shallow pools at their feet, staining the ground in a creeping, red-black bloom.

The water around his boots hesitated. Then it pulled back entirely, flowing away from him as though repelled.

The king's eyes narrowed. He shifted back a step, but the same water that freed Kael now clamped around his legs.

Kael was already moving.

The king tried to pivot clear, but his stance was locked. Kael's blade rose in a clean, unbroken motion until the tip hovered a breath away from the king's throat. His voice was low, even.

"It's over."

The king sank to one knee.

"I give up," he said, voice rough but steady.

Kael exhaled, letting the weight of the moment bleed out with his breath. He stepped forward, closing the space between them, and caught Draeven's forearm. The grip was firm, steady—less a show of camaraderie than a simple act of pulling him upright.

"I never caught your name," Kael said.

"It's Draeven."

Just then the light dimmed.

Above, the clouds began to twist—slow at first, like the sky was drawing breath. The motion tightened, pulling into a spiral that churned faster with every heartbeat. The battlefield darkened, shadows sliding over stone and steel.

Kael's gaze lifted. His grip on Draeven shifted instinctively.

A yellow bolt of lightning ripped down from the black, splitting the sky open. It was aimed straight at Draeven, who hadn't even turned his head.

It was too fast to think.

His body moved on its own. Boots grinding against the wet stone, he stepped into the strike, sword snapping upward. The lightning slammed into the steel, flooding through the blade and into his body.

Every muscle locked. Pain ripped through him in jagged bursts, each one leaving his muscles locked and trembling. His jaw clamped until the ache spread down his neck, but his hands refused to let go.

Through the haze, thought slipped away. What remained was instinct—cold, sharp, and certain.

He twisted the blade, shifting the flow. The current split, arcing up into the clouds.

His lungs burned. His vision swam.

"Damn you, Zeus," he managed, before his knees buckled.

The storm broke. The clouds peeled away, the sky clearing like nothing had happened.

His hit the ground hard. Somewhere far off, Liz's voice cut through the ringing in his ears—sharp, panicked.

A shadow crossed over him. The dragon plunged from the sky, wings folding tight as it dropped. Talons gouged deep furrows into the earth, flinging dirt and stone aside in its wake. Liz was out of the saddle before it had fully settled, boots striking the ground in a sprint. She dropped to her knees beside him, hands already reaching.

Her palms pressed against his chest, golden light spilling between her fingers. Nothing. She pushed harder, jaw tight, her breath coming quick.

Around them, the surviving soldiers stirred. Metal clinked as weapons were drawn. One by one, they formed a slow, tightening circle.

Liz rose, bow in hand, arrow drawn.

"Don't come any closer." Her voice cut through the air like a blade, but there were too many. The circle closed in another step.

Her eyes flicked down to Kael. She shook his shoulder once. Twice. No response.

A shape moved in the dark.

Pride stepped forward, his presence heavier than the soldiers' weapons. Without looking at Liz, he drove his sword into the earth, the steel humming from the impact.

"If you dare cross this line," his voice was calm but cold enough to bite, "we will tear you all to pieces."

One by one, the rest of the Sins appeared behind him, their forms towering. They stood in silence, a wall of flesh and steel around Kael.

Pride dropped to the ground beside his master, legs folding neatly, gaze never leaving the enemy.

"We'll wait," he said. "He'll wake."

Liz knelt again, light returning to her palms.

His body stayed still, but inside…

There was no ground under him. Only the black. Endless, weightless, silent—until a voice rolled through the void.

"Come to me, son of Hades… I'm waiting."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll be there."

His eyes opened.