And so we die.

Warlic stayed behind to buy us time, and we knew he would not follow, that he would use his mana to the last and in the moment of crisis, let them cut him down. And so we fled, and Falconreach burned behind us.

Cysero was never the same after that. A shallow smile. Soulless laughter. Weapons crafted like the world has never seen, flying from the anvil of the Mad Magical Weaponsmith: blades of light that cut through all like a knife through butter, blades that drain the life of our foes by inches, traps that seed the ground behind us, ring our campsites, turn the necrotic life-force animating the army back on itself, exploding violently. Scythes that are shadows of death's own, reaping life and un-life like wheat, swords that create ice within a body at the lightest touch, then let it explode, leaving rotting flesh upon great pillars of ice that erupt from the inside.

Now they prove their worth on the battlefield, the greatest light-sword in my left hand, another in his, and for a moment as I glimpse him in the melee, I see or think I see blond hair and tan skin, like the version of him I saw on the day the timelines converged.

But even his skill can only buy us time, not win the day.

Every Destiny Weapon we have has been turned to the cause, flashing gold in the hands of the last guardians, the mighty Guardian Dragon appearing here and there as he is summoned again and again, unleashing his wrath.

But it is not enough.

Galanoth gives one last cry, and falls, blood staining the ground, and the last dracolich falls with him. Alania presses a hand to his side, and shakes her head. Rolith swings his hammer harder, bashing in empty skulls, back to back with Artix, but even their might is tiring.

There are so few of us left now, and I can feel my strength wane with each moment.

We all knew this battle would be the last. But the Shadowscythe will fall as well, if we succeed.

And the plan will succeed. The Darkness never understood humans, nor considered that, knowing our death was close at hand, we would craft the impossible, a portal at the hands of two mad geniuses, and strike directly at their hearts.

Janniaa's Mirror spoke truth. In other worlds, I could be a tyrant, a destroyer, a DoomKnight before whom the world would kneel. But we have lived in this one, and I protect it to the last, whatever my alternate selves became. I am the Dragonlord of Falconreach, and I only bring destruction to my foes, be they human, necrotic, elemental, or the Shadowscythe itself.

Aegis is beside me, his chill a comfort, a silent support, as for a moment the way is clear, and I take it, leaping, flickering across the battlefield, dancing off the world-soul even as Artix's axe clatters to the ground from limp hands.

The Darkness knows fear now, yet I can see in it confidence as well, knowing that even my light-blade will not be enough to kill it, and though it will be damaged, it will recover, and I will be gone.

But that was never the plan.

Steel blade slipping from bloodied fingers, even as the light of the other sword shields me, I bring my hand to the Dragon Amulet at my throat, and speak the words that will be my last.

Jewel-bright scales fly to me, growing as I channel power to the amulet, and now the Darkenss understands, and I can see it trying desperately to flee, but the weapons of destiny and light surround it, though all their wielders are fallen now.

It cannot escape, and it knows this, and as my vision fades I give the last command. As I cry my dragon's name, the word that has always held more power than any incantation, I can hear the familiar roar respond, though I can no longer see. "Unleash Oblivion."

And so it comes to this, as the dragon of destruction fulfills his purpose.

As my life fades, so does the Darkness, and we have won.