The Pale King

Two days later, the sky over Nocturne turned the color of a bruised plum.

The Pale King arrived.

He didn't knock. A rift opened in the sky above the Spire. Monstrosities—slick, white creatures with too many limbs—poured down onto the balconies.

The alarm didn't sound; it was cut off by an explosion.

Elian was thrown across his room as the wall blew inward. He scrambled up, grabbing his medical bag. He ran into the hallway.

It was a slaughterhouse. Obsidian guards lay dead, their bodies twisted by void magic.

Elian ran toward the throne room.

He burst through the doors. The scene was apocalyptic. The glass walls were shattered. The wind howled, carrying the screams of the dying city below.

In the center of the room, Kaelen fought.

He was a blur of violet magic and steel. He wielded a sword made of solidified shadow, cutting down the pale horrors. But he was slowing down.

The Rot was flaring. Every spell he cast accelerated the necrosis.

At the far end of the room stood the Pale King—a tall, gaunt figure in white robes, his face a void of swirling mist.

"Your time is over, Reaper," the Pale King intoned. His voice sounded like grinding stones.

He raised a hand. A lance of white energy shot across the room.

Kaelen tried to shield himself, but his magic faltered. The lance pierced his chest, pinning him to the obsidian throne.

Kaelen screamed. The sword clattered to the floor.

"No!" Elian yelled.

He sprinted across the room, dodging the flailing limbs of a monster. He slid to his knees beside the throne.

Kaelen was coughing blood. The lance had pierced a lung. But worse, the black veins of the Rot were racing up his neck, turning his skin to charcoal.

"Get... out..." Kaelen wheezed, his eyes dimming. "Elian... run."

The Pale King laughed, floating closer. "The vessel breaks. The door opens."

Elian looked at the Pale King. Then he looked at Kaelen.

If Kaelen died, the barrier fell. The Void would consume everything. The clinic. The beggar with the broken leg. The mother with the sick child.

There was no choice. There never had been.

"I'm not running," Elian whispered.