Malakor hit the floor of the cathedral like a falling meteor.
The kinetic shockwave of his landing spiderwebbed the mirror-ice across fifty paces, sending three of the remaining Void-Gorged Horrors stumbling backward. Before the beasts could regain their balance, Malakor was upon them, transformed into an engine of unadulterated, primal destruction.
He did not use technique. He used absolute, unyielding slaughter.
His abyssal great sword swung in a blinding, horizontal cleave, cloaked in a roaring inferno of black and crimson fire that seared the air into a vacuum. The blade ripped through the chest of the first horror, vaporizing its petrified bone armor and disintegrating its necrotic flesh into black ash before the creature could even scream.
In the same fluid motion, Malakor stepped into the second beast, abandoning his blade to drive his iron-gauntleted fist straight through the monster's face. The concussive impact caved the abomination’s skull in with a sickening crunch of shattered frost, dark ether detonating from his knuckles to blow out the back of the creature’s head.
The remaining four horrors surged forward, their spiked weapons descending upon him from all sides.
Malakor caught the barbed haft of an incoming halberd with his left forearm, ignoring the tearing screech of steel against his plate, and yanked the wielder toward him. With a savage twist of his hips, he drove his knee into its groin, snapping its pelvis, and brought his great sword down like an executioner’s axe, cleaving the beast from collar to hip.
Within five heartbeats, the four abominations were nothing more than smoking piles of black ash and shattered crystal scattered across the floor.
Breathing heavily, his black armor steaming in the freezing air, Malakor turned instantly to Aurelia.
The bloodlust that had turned his crimson eyes into twin pools of madness softened the instant his gaze found hers. He crossed the distance between them in three massive strides, dropping his great sword onto the ice with a clatter that echoed off the high ribs of the cathedral.
He reached her, his hands coming up to grip her face with frantic, possessive desperation. His fingers were trembling slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones, searching every inch of her pale features for damage.
"Aurelia," he growled, his voice a raw, desperate rasp that vibrated in her bones. "Are you whole? Tell me you are whole."
Aurelia looked up at him, her heart thudding violently against her ribs—not from the battle, but from the terrifying, all-consuming intensity in his eyes. The pain in her bruised collarbone faded into insignificance beneath the sheer heat rolling off his body.
She raised her hands, placing her palms against the hot steel of his breastplate, feeling the furious, ragged pounding of his heart beneath the armor.
"I am whole, Malakor," she whispered, her voice steady and laced with deep, tender warmth. She stepped closer, pressing her chest against his plate, her fingers curling over the edge of his collar. "The strike caught my shoulder-plate. My conduits are undamaged. Look at me... I am here."
A shudder of overwhelming relief ran through his massive, corded frame. A low, ragged groan ripped from his throat.
Unable to contain the violent tide of emotion surging through him, Malakor wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ice and pulling her flush against his chest. His mouth crashed down upon hers in a hard, bruising kiss that tasted of iron, smoke, and savage relief.
It was a kiss born of terror and triumph—a raw claim of ownership and devotion that took what little breath she had left. Aurelia parted her lips, surrendering completely to his fierce hunger, her arms wrapping around his neck as their combined auras—fire and starlight—swirled together, igniting the cold hall in a warm, protective blaze.
When he finally set her boots back upon the ice, his forehead remained pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged, hot gasps against her lips.
"If anything takes you from me," Malakor growled softly against her mouth, his crimson eyes burning with dark, terrifying resolve, "I will burn this world to its bedrock and tear down the stars one by one."
Aurelia smiled against his lips, her starlit eyes gleaming with equal parts love and lethal ambition. She touched his stubbled jaw, her thumb brushing away a fleck of dried ash.
"Nothing takes me from you, my lord," she whispered.
Behind them, a ragged, wet cough broke the silence of the cathedral.
At the top of the fractured dais, Duke Vane crawled from the rubble of his throne. The gilded white enamel of his cuirass was shattered, his white hair soaked in black blood, but atop his brow, the Crown of the Void was pulsing with frantic, blinding purple light.
The Pale King pulled himself up using his meteoric spear, his milky eyes burning with the dying embers of fanaticism.
"You think... you have won?" Vane hissed, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips as he raised his spear toward the open skylight above. "The Crown does not yield! If I cannot rule this realm... then the Void will swallow it whole!"
Malakor slowly broke his gaze from Aurelia. He reached down, retrieving his great sword from the ice with an effortless flick of his wrist.
The warmth in his features vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, merciless face of the conqueror.
He slid his arm around Aurelia’s waist, stepping forward with her toward the dais, their powers aligning into a single, terrifying harmonic frequency.
"He wants to break his crown," Aurelia murmured, her daggers humming with celestial starlight.
"Then let us take it before he breaks his neck," Malakor answered, his voice dropping into a deadly rumble.