The Thronefire blazed, its flames licking the ceiling, casting long, twisted shadows across the chamber. Seth stood at the heart of the inferno, his eyes glowing with an unnatural, fiery light. The air around him hummed with power—raw, chaotic, and ancient.
Callan did not move. His gaze locked onto his son, now a stranger dressed in the garb of enemies Callan thought he had destroyed long ago. His mind swirled with confusion, anger, and sorrow.
The figure before him was both too familiar and entirely foreign.
Seth's hand tightened around the ember-glass blade, a weapon that seemed to pulse with the power of the Thronefire itself. The air crackled with the promise of violence.
"Kneel," Seth commanded again, voice cold and laced with venom. "Your place is at my feet, Father. I am your heir. Your legacy. I will take your throne."
Callan's lips curled into a grim smile. "Your throne? This city? It's all cursed. There's no power in this place anymore."
The smile on Seth's face twisted into a sneer. "You speak of curses as if you were ever anything but one yourself. You burned this place down and walked away, leaving the ashes for others to build upon. I have claimed it. I have claimed what you left behind."
Ren, standing in the doorway to the throne room, frowned. "We don't have time for this."
He edged his way to Callan's side, silently preparing for the inevitable confrontation. His instincts were sharp, and even though he was no match for the power Seth wielded, he knew Callan would need backup.
"You're right," Callan said, not taking his eyes off Seth. "But this is my fight."
Seth raised the ember-glass sword high. "Then prepare to die, old man."
In a single motion, Seth launched himself toward Callan, the fire swirling around him. The ember-glass sword sliced through the air like a serpent of flame, and Callan barely had time to react. He parried the blow with his own blade, sparks flying as steel met fire.
The force of the strike pushed him back, his boots scraping across the marble floor. Seth was fast—too fast. His every movement was an extension of the Thronefire itself, a seamless dance of flame and fury. Callan barely kept pace, his senses overloaded with the intensity of Seth's assault.
Ren's eyes narrowed. "Damnit, he's faster than I thought. This isn't just a fight. It's a reckoning."
"You don't understand," Callan muttered through gritted teeth, deflecting another strike. "The Thronefire feeds him. It's a part of him."
Seth's eyes burned with excitement, his smile spreading wider. "I am the flame. I am the future. You are nothing."
With a roar, Seth launched a series of devastating slashes, his blade a blur of motion. Callan blocked and dodged, each parry exhausting him, pushing him further toward the edge. His muscles screamed for rest, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Not now.
Seth's form flickered with the intensity of the flames around him, moving like a demon made of fire and shadow. His attacks were wild but controlled, each one designed to drive Callan back and force him into a corner.
Callan gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he met each strike with determination. He could feel it—the power of the Thronefire tugging at him, urging him to embrace it. But he had sealed this place for a reason. He wouldn't give in.
"Seth!" Callan shouted over the clash of steel. "This isn't you! You've been twisted by their lies!"
Seth laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think I don't know who I am? You abandoned me. You left me to rot in the ashes of your mistakes. Now I will rise from them."
Another strike came faster than the last, catching Callan off guard. The ember-glass sword cut deep into his side, and he gasped, blood spilling onto the cold marble floor.
Ren cursed and rushed to Callan's side. "Damnit, this is bad! We need to get out of here."
Callan shook his head, gritting his teeth. "No. I have to end this."
Seth pressed the attack, his movements growing more erratic, more frenzied as the Thronefire infused him with power. He slashed again and again, each blow landing with more precision, more force. Callan struggled to keep up, his energy waning with each parry.
Ren stepped forward, ready to intervene, but Callan held up a hand, stopping him.
"Stay back," Callan growled. "This is my fight. I need to do this."
Seth's laughter rang out, maddened. "Do you still think you can stop me? You're nothing but an old soldier—washed up and broken. I have the fire now. I have the power."
Callan met his son's gaze, a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. "Power alone isn't enough to rule, Seth. It's what you do with it. You have to choose."
Seth paused for a fraction of a second, the words seeping into his mind. But in the next instant, the flame in his eyes flared brighter, and he surged forward with renewed fury.
"Then I will choose. And you will fall!"
The final clash came faster than a lightning strike.
Seth raised his sword high, channeling all his power into a single blow, while Callan gathered his remaining strength, summoning the ancient energy that had once made him a Demon General.
The two collided.
Time slowed.
For an instant, there was nothing but fire and shadow—an explosion of light and sound, the clash of metal, the roar of magic, and the crackle of ancient power. Callan's blade met Seth's, the two energies clashing in a moment of pure destruction.
Then, with a shuddering, earth-shattering explosion, the world around them fractured.
The throne room was still.
Callan stood, his sword trembling in his hand, his body bruised and bloodied, but not broken. He looked down at Seth, lying on the ground before him, his ember-glass sword shattered and his body scorched.
Seth's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his fiery eyes dimming, his power draining away.
"You… you chose this," Callan whispered, his voice heavy with regret.
Seth coughed, his mouth bloodied. "I… was never yours to begin with."
With that, he closed his eyes.
The Thronefire flickered.
Callan fell to his knees beside his son.
For the first time in years, he wept.