Divinity
The ruins of the abandoned temple trembled, its cracked pillars groaning under the weight of time and the relentless fury of their battle. The floor was scorched with blackened craters where Christopher Fontenot’s flames had raged, interspersed with jagged, frozen spires of Marcus Aumont’s icy blood. Their final confrontation had reshaped this forgotten place into a graveyard of gods and monsters.
Marcus leaned heavily against the crumbling wall, his alabaster skin streaked with dark ichor that oozed sluggishly from deep gashes. His once-pristine black and gold attire, a testament to his status as King of the Night Court, was now in tatters. For the first time in millennia, Marcus tasted fear—true, mortal terror.
Christopher loomed before him, swaying on unsteady feet. His body, gaunt from days without rest, bore countless burns and gashes, his flesh still smoldering faintly from his own uncontrollable flames. The once-confident Guildmaster was reduced to a gaunt specter, his green eyes glowing feverishly with determination—and madness.
“This… is the end, Aumont,” Christopher rasped, voice like dry parchment. His hand trembled as it reached for Marcus’s face. Each step forward was a victory of will over broken bones and frayed sinew, yet he moved with the certainty of a man who had already won. “Your spark… your divinity… it’s mine.”
Marcus’s golden eyes, dulled with exhaustion, widened. His breath quickened, a hollow rasp that echoed in the vast chamber. He could not muster the strength to move, let alone fight. A true death loomed before him, a prospect that had never felt real until now. The divine spark within him pulsed faintly, whispering promises of eternity—but only if he survived.
“No,” Marcus whispered, almost pleading. “You don’t understand the burden… the curse of it. It will destroy you.”
Christopher chuckled, his grin feral and unrelenting. “Then let it destroy me,” he spat. “It’s worth it… for her.”
His fingertips brushed the edge of Marcus’s cheek, searing cold flesh with blistering heat. The spark within Marcus recoiled, struggling against the inevitable. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, expecting oblivion.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Christopher’s knees buckled, and the hand that had nearly claimed divinity fell limp to his side. He staggered, colliding with the wall beside Marcus, leaving a smear of blood and ash on the ancient stone. The Guildmaster slid down slowly, his body collapsing under the weight of his own ambitions.
“No,” Marcus breathed, opening his eyes to the impossible. He stared at Christopher, his would-be executioner, who now sat slumped against the wall. Blood bubbled from Christopher’s lips as he gave a final, victorious grin.
“I… won,” Christopher murmured, the light in his eyes dimming. “Even if I fall… I’ve denied you eternity. No one wins.”
His head lolled forward, and the fire in his veins flickered out. Silence swallowed the temple, broken only by the sound of Marcus’s ragged breathing.
For a long moment, Marcus remained frozen, staring at the still form of his relentless pursuer. Then the realization struck him like a hammer to the chest. He was alive. Against all odds, he had survived.
A shuddering gasp escaped his lips, followed by another. It built, uncontrollable, until it spilled forth as peals of hysterical laughter. Marcus threw his head back, cackling like a madman, the sound reverberating through the ruined temple.
“After all that…” he choked out between gasps of laughter. “Nine and a half years, and this… this is how it ends?”
The irony of it all was too much to bear. The great Marcus Aumont, King of the Abhartach, nearly undone by a mortal—and yet spared by that same mortal’s frailty. He laughed until tears streaked his bloodied face, laughter that carried both relief and despair.
As the echoes of his laughter faded, Marcus leaned back against the wall and stared at Christopher’s lifeless form. The fire mage’s expression remained frozen in smug satisfaction, even in death. Marcus’s laughter gave way to silence, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
“Rest now, Fontenot,” Marcus muttered, his voice soft, almost tender. “You’ve earned it… far more than I.”
But even as he spoke, Marcus felt a weight settle over him. The spark within him pulsed weakly, reminding him of what he had narrowly escaped. He was alive, yes—but not unbroken.
For the first time in centuries, the King of the Abhartach felt mortal.
