(KOTG) Ch 13: The Way Back From Madness!

Kyvareth stood tall—taller than even the jagged cliffs that lined the battlefield. The wind whipped at her cloak, her steel-toned skin gleaming beneath the light of a sun now dimmed by smoke and cannon fire. Her gaze drifted downward—down to the ground below, where, by the edge of her armored boot, the little king stood alone.

And yet... he didn't feel so little anymore.

The earth around Thron shimmered with heat and pressure, as if it, too, was struggling to contain him. A golden aura cloaked his frame, no longer gentle or warm, but jagged and flaring. Red lightning snapped and cracked across his body like veins of fury, surging with energy too ancient for his young form. His eyes burned—not just with anger, but with something far older. Something terrifying.

Kyvareth swallowed. She felt a coldness begin to creep up her spine—foreign and uninvited. Goosebumps spread across her skin. That shouldn't have been possible.

Her body, carved and honed in battle over centuries, was more stone than flesh. And yet... she shivered.

Fear.

Real fear.

The last time she had felt this—this impossible pressure, this suffocating sense of power—it was when she stood before him. The First King. The Titan Father who had called the Akyri from the skies and had them kneel with nothing but his words.

And now she felt it again.

From Thron.

The battlefield had fallen quiet for a moment—awed silence. Until—

A scream.

Wet and high-pitched.

Kyvareth's head snapped toward the sound just in time to see one of her sisters—Sirvanna, normally so reserved—ripping a soldier of Vytharion in half like a wet cloth. She smiled down at the mess, her teeth stained red, eyes glowing a feral, demonic crimson.

"No..." Kyvareth muttered.

More screams followed.

Dozens.

All around, the other Titan-born warriors were descending into chaos, overcome by something primal. Their eyes turned red, their laughter wild and full of bloodlust. They stomped through the enemy soldiers, tearing them apart with bare hands, flinging them into the sky like toys. Some crushed them beneath their fists. Others leapt into the air and came down like meteors. One—a woman Thron had spoken to earlier—casually sat down on a fleeing group of men, giggling as she flattened them with the weight of a goddess.

They weren't just fighting now.

They were hunting.

And it was all because of him.

Kyvareth's heart pounded as she felt it—a pull, like strings from her very soul tugging her forward, telling her to join them. To bow to his wrath. To burn the world for her king.

"K-Kyvareth..."

The voice was shaky, hoarse.

Kyvareth turned and saw Lysera stumbling, barely upright, her eyes flickering from gold to red and back again. Her lips trembled, her breaths ragged.

"You have to stop him..." she gasped. "He doesn't know... He's calling us. All of us. If you don't—he'll disappear into that rage, and we'll all go with him."

She collapsed to one knee, clutching her burned arm.

Kyvareth's jaw clenched. She nodded once and turned toward Thron, her body suddenly feeling heavy, as if every step forward defied the will of a god.

His aura—his will—pushed against her like a hurricane. Every instinct she had screamed to kneel. To obey.

But she wouldn't. Not this time.

She pressed forward, bracing herself, step by step, until her foot finally gave out and she dropped to her knees with a massive thud. The ground quaked. Dust jumped. Thron turned to face her, golden lightning dancing across his skin, his eyes wild and unknowable.

Kyvareth stared into them.

And for a terrifying second... she felt like she might kneel forever.

But she didn't.

Instead, she reached out with trembling hands—her hands, the ones that had smashed kings and split mountains—and gently lifted the little king from the ground.

Her fingers closed around him protectively, and she pressed him to her chest.

All across the battlefield, silence fell again.

Every eye turned to her—giantess and human alike. The Vorshaldians froze mid-rampage, their red eyes beginning to flicker, confused. Even Edron Malvay, bloodied and crawling across the rocks, dared not move.

Kyvareth's voice was soft. Gentle. A voice not of a warrior, but of an old soul who had seen too much war.

"My king..." she whispered, just for him. "Please... come back to us."

Her grip didn't tighten, but it held him close—not to trap, but to protect. She could feel the heat of his aura against her collarbone, like holding a star just barely cooled. And still, she didn't let go.

"Don't let that hate own you," she murmured. "You don't need to burn the world down to be heard. You already have us. We see you. We follow you."

Thron's aura flickered.

His lightning began to crackle less violently.

His glow dimmed.

Slowly... slowly... it faded altogether.

Thron blinked, his eyes softening as if he'd just woken from a dream.

He looked up at Kyvareth, brow furrowed, confused. "What just... what happened?"

Kyvareth didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

Instead, she smiled—a soft, warm smile that rarely ever touched her lips. She let out a slow breath, brushing a thumb over his back gently, as if he were made of glass.

And in that moment, under the shattered sky, amid blood and ash and smoke...

Nothing else mattered.