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CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

IRENE

I rene ran relentlessly, her feet pounding against the trembling earth. Trees collapsed around her, trunks snapping like brittle bones. Flames devoured the mountain, a tide of fire pouring into the valley, swallowing everything in its path.

Every step was a struggle. The mountain roared behind her. The sky was torn apart by red lightning.

But she didn’t stop.

She reached the beach— or what was left of it.

The once-golden sand had turned to blackened ruin, scorched and lifeless. Ash swirled thick in the air, choking the horizon. Bodies lay scattered along the shore, some burned beyond recognition, others dragged half into the waves—faces erased, limbs twisted. The stench of charred flesh and rancid salt hung thick, suffocating.

But Irene kept running.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her legs shook, her breath was ragged. But she did not stop.

Where was he?

She could not let Dax escape.

And then, she saw Commander Roderick.

He stood alone amidst the destruction. His battered armor was slick with blood—his own, his men’s. His face, scarred by a lifetime of war, twisted with exhaustion and contempt. His lips curled into a bitter, broken sneer.

“You just missed him…” he rasped, a choked, hollow laugh rattling in his throat.

Irene didn’t answer. She stood motionless, her breath jagged, her eyes locked onto him.

Roderick wiped the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. His gaze swept across the dead, lingering over his fallen soldiers. Sorrow crossed his face. But it vanished.

He turned back to Irene, raised his sword, and leveled it at her heart. “You won’t leave this island alive, girl.”

Irene exhaled sharply. Her fingers curled at her sides. A strand of hair clung to her damp face, and with a slow, weary motion, she pushed it away.

She inhaled sharply, her voice raw, “I didn't mean to.” Irene’s gaze dropped to the body of a dead soldier near her feet.

Without hesitation, she crouched, fingers curling around the hilt of a fallen sword. The blade was heavy but sharp, its steel still hungry for blood. She rolled her shoulders, shifting her stance, tracing patterns in the sand with her feet—testing, feeling, calculating. The wind howled, lashing at her skin, thick with burning ash.

Across from her, Roderick stood motionless, watching with mocking amusement.

A slow, twisted grin spread across his face.

“You think you’re unlocking some hidden power now?” he taunted, his voice drenched in contempt. “Becoming the hero you never were?”

Irene stopped moving.

The wind lifted strands of her hair, casting a shifting shadow across her face. Slowly—deliberately—she lifted her gaze to meet his.

Her voice was quiet. Sharper than any blade.

“I don’t need power.”

“I will tear the flesh from your bones and crush your skull beneath my heel.”

Roderick’s grin faded.

He lunged.

Their swords clashed—a metallic scream that echoed through the burning ruins, a funeral bell for the damned.

Irene staggered from the force of his first strike, her arms rattling with shock—but she held. Roderick was brutal, relentless, his attacks calculated to break her. His blows came fast, each one a hammer meant to shatter her defenses.

Irene was faster.

She dodged a swing meant to split her skull, twisting beneath his guard and striking at his side. He spun—too quick—parrying at the last second.

Then he struck.

Hard.

His blade slammed against hers, and he shoved her violently backward. Irene stumbled, her boots skidding against the ashen ground, but she caught herself—and did not fall.

“You’re weak.” Roderick attacked.

He attacked again.

His blade found flesh.

Pain exploded through Irene’s side as steel ripped through skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and painful. Warm blood trickled down her ribs.

But she didn’t stop.

Irene clutched her side, her fingers sticky with blood, her hand tightening around the sword.

“And you’re already dead.”

She smiled, teeth stained red. She lunged.

Her blade flashed—left, then right—a feint. Roderick moved to counter.

Her sword sliced into his arm.

Armor cracked—Skin split— He growled, stumbling back.

The wind surged, howling, sweeping black sand and embers around them. The mountain itself rumbled, the air thick with smoke, the sky burning.

Roderick snarled, recovering fast. He struck wildly, slamming the pommel of his sword into her face.

A sickening crack. Irene’s vision exploded in red.

The taste of blood flooded her mouth—iron and salt—her skull throbbing. But she did not fall. She did not fall.

She struck back.

Blind, instinctive—her blade bit into his shoulder.

Roderick roared, wrenching away, but before Irene could breathe?—

His sword slashed again.

Pain. Deep, searing, unrelenting pain. Her ribs. Again.

Irene stumbled back, breath ragged, hand clutching her side, feeling the warm spill of blood between her fingers.

Across from her, Roderick swayed. He, too, was bleeding, his stance no longer steady. His shoulders rose and fell, his legs trembling beneath him.

The earth beneath them felt hungry.

As if the mountain itself wanted them buried.

Irene dragged an arm across her forehead, smearing blood and sweat across her skin. Her body screamed.

But she wasn’t done.

Neither was he.

They stepped forward.

Slow. Deliberate.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Neither of them was leaving this fight unbroken.

The ash in the air made each breath a curse. They moved forward slowly, closing the distance between them again, and began to circle. Commander Roderick cracked his neck, ready. He murmured one last prayer:

"May the power of the gods be with me."

"May the power of the gods be with you," she laughed mockingly, blood dripping from her mouth.

Roderick frowned, but Irene saw the hesitation in his eyes—the eyes of a man who had a wife and child waiting for him somewhere. That fragment of weakness was all she needed.

Then, with one last act of grace, Irene struck—the first and final killing blow.

Her sword sank deep into Roderick’s stomach. His eyes widened as intense pain surged through him. The Commander let out a hoarse gasp. Blood spurted from his mouth, trickling down his chin in a thick stream as a ragged breath escaped his lips, weak and broken.

Roderick faltered, yet his trembling hand still gripped his sword. Slowly, he raised his arm and pulled Irene toward him—then, with a final burst of strength, he drove his blade into her side.

He pulled her closer. Irene’s eyes widened in pain. Against her ear, the Commander whispered the very words she had once spoken to him:

"Either we both win..." He twisted the sword inside her.

Then, he pulled it free. With a final gasp of agony, he whispered, "Or we both lose."

His body collapsed heavily onto the sand.

Irene tensed, her breath cut short. The pain was searing—an unbearable burn that radiated down to her legs. With a trembling hand, she pressed on her side. Blood soaked her fingers.

She staggered and fell onto the blackened sand. The pain was relentless, scorching her from the inside out. The ground beneath her was sticky, soaked with the blood that poured from her wound, mingling with that of the dead commander beside her.

She could no longer move. Her body was drained of all strength, her mind assaulted by crushing fatigue. But as she lay on the ground, on the verge of unconsciousness, her eyes rose to the sky.

A beautiful sky.

A tear rolled gently down her cheek, mingling with the blood that already stained her face.

"It was cruel," she thought, "that a world so torn by suffering could still offer such beauty."

The sky, tinted orange and gold, was bathed in the dying rays of the sun. Shades of pink and blue mingled with the dark curls of ash that swirled in the air. The horizon seemed ablaze, and yet there was something peaceful in that light, like an ending just waiting to be accepted.

Lying on the sand, emptied of her strength, she regretted.

Revenge had been one heartbeat away, yet ruin had been faster.

Rocks of fire fell beside Irene on the sand, scorching her skin. The water lapped against her broken body, cooling the flames as if the Abyss itself sought to claim her at last. Ashes rained down, mixing with the saltwater and blood, and the waves whispered over her—soft and relentless.

On this very shore, the Abyss had whispered before—warning Nehalania, who destroyed herself for love and vengeance, only to bring forth ruin.

It had whispered to Jessalyn, who burned her heart for revenge, only to be left empty.

And now, it whispered of Irene, who had shattered the sapphire, torn the world to ruin, and set free a chaos that could never be undone.

The Abyss sighed, low and deep, as the tide washed over Irene, soaking her hair, filling her lungs.

It wanted to tell her, I told you.

And as fire rained from the skies and ashes ascended into the heavens, Irene knew what she would leave behind.

Not victory.

Just a name—Irene Delmare.

A name etched into the annals of despair, a harbinger of ruin, born from a cruel twist of fate.

The tear continued its course down her cheek, and for the first time, Irene felt her mind relax, as if it were floating gently out of her body.

As her breath faltered and her vision blurred, she wondered if things might have been different—if, just once, she had silenced the voices in her head and searched for the truth in the world around her.

"Dying hurts so much," she thought, as her breath grew shorter. Her vision blurred, and the world around her began to dissolve.

The stars would not mourn.

Nor would the earth weep.

But in the silence between their indifference, Irene lay—vengeance fulfilled, ruin eternal, and the world forever changed for the cost of one misunderstanding.

She was ready. Ready to sink into darkness one last time.

To die.

But just as she closed her eyes, surrendering to death, something jerked her out of oblivion.

She felt two large hands rest on her—rough, powerful hands.

Her limp body was lifted.

Through her half-closed eyelids, Irene saw a massive figure walking across the desolate landscape. The world around them was nothing but ruin and fire. The fallen trees had burned, the sand had turned to ash, and the waves were black.

Blade walked, carrying the one who had condemned the world.

The greatest flaw of humanity was its consciousness—a mind so sharp it cut reality into illusions.

Irene saw betrayal where there was none.

Dax saw vengeance where there was grief.

If they only had seen each other, bare and unguarded, the world would have been spared, and the curse left unbroken.

But to see so clearly would have made them gods. And gods they were not.

For those who still believe this tale is one of good against evil, perhaps you missed the warning woven into every word.

This is the story of those who sought power, and in their madness, thought they could bend fate to their will—only to be brought to their knees before its cruelty.

Their sins will echo through the ages.

And history will remember them as the Rogue Souls.