The battlefield was chaos incarnate.
The shoreline now resembled a graveyard of towers—burned and broken, surrounded by blackened sand and steaming blood. Ghouls tore into Naga flank units, and the gnolls loosed volley after volley of crude bolts. The tide was not receding—it was still rising.
And at the center of the storm, Vanthelis faced the Queen.
She hovered above the broken ground on coils of dark water, seaweed-like hair writhing in the air, her coral-plated armor smeared with ichor.
"You can't hide behind your allies forever," she hissed, raising her crossbow. "Let's end this farce."
Vanthelis's breathing slowed. His hand clenched around his sword, glowing with eerie red veins pulsing from the Heart of Tarasque embedded into his chest. His body shimmered briefly, flesh shifting like clay—Morph. He mimicked her form in full, from serpentine tail to poison-tipped arrows, though he lacked her Stone Gaze.
The Queen's expression twisted in disbelief as she looked upon her own mirror image. "What...?"
He didn't give her time.
Vanthelis charged, his form blurring between his true self and the Queen's mimicry. The ground cracked beneath him as he swung the blade—she blocked with her coral bracers and retaliated with a blinding shot of poison. He ducked under it, stepping in with precise fury, slashing, morphing, kicking, parrying.
Far to the side, Ishlar clashed with the Naga Princess, their duel brutal and filled with flashes of frost and steel. Her Voice Echo shattered a stone pillar as Ishlar leapt through it, swinging Frostmourne with both hands.
Back on the main front, an Acolyte—young, trembling, but devoted—slipped through the rubble and raised both hands behind the Queen.
"Sap her... life..." he wheezed.
A faint green stream ignited and latched to her back. The Queen jerked in pain, letting out a sharp hiss. She twisted, her tail coiling in anger.
And fired.
The crossbow bolt screamed through the air—aimed for Vanthelis's heart.
He saw it just in time. His body shimmered into the Queen's form again, shifting trajectory mid-step, and the arrow flew clean past him.
He smirked.
But then he heard the sound.
A soft thud.
He turned slowly, heart suddenly heavy.
Behind him, standing wide-eyed and frozen in place, was Kristine.
The bolt pierced clean through her chest.
She gasped—her small hand reaching for something, anything, eyes wide not with fear, but confusion. She looked at Vanthelis as if unsure whether she was dreaming or awake.
"V-Vanthelis...?"
He moved to catch her, but her legs folded. She slumped forward into his arms, blood soaking her tunic, staining his armor.
For a moment, the battle silenced.
His arms shook. The world narrowed. Towers. Screams. Ghouls. Fire. None of it mattered.
"Kristine…" he whispered, voice breaking, his body frozen, sword limp at his side. She was only twelve. Too young. Too innocent. She was never meant to be in the front.
Behind him, the Queen sneered. "Touching."
Her voice broke through the fog. Rage. No—fury surged through his veins.
The Heart of Tarasque glowed. His morph began to spiral wildly, form flickering between the Queen and the Princess, between his original body and something more monstrous.
The ground under his feet cracked again.
"I will tear your spine out," he said softly, almost too quiet to hear.
Then—he vanished.
He reappeared midair above the Queen, blade raised, shadows screaming.
She barely raised her shield as he came crashing down.
Far behind the line, Ishlar turned briefly at the sudden power spike, just as the Princess summoned illusions again and slashed at his side.
He growled, spinning Frostmourne in a wide arc, cutting through two illusions and freezing the third.
The battle raged again.
But something had changed.
Vanthelis was no longer fighting to win.
He was fighting to destroy.