Maxwell's breathing came in ragged gasps, each exhale a cloud of golden mist that dissipated into the scorched air. His divine radiance flickered like a dying candle, the once-brilliant rings of light behind him cracked and fading.
The six stood before him in a semicircle, their weapons lowered but ready. They had learned patience in their ascension—the virtue of waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"You're finished," Zane said, his twin blades still humming with inverted energy. "Can you feel it? Your light guttering out like a spent torch?"
Maxwell tried to straighten, to summon the authority that had once commanded legions. But his wings trembled, golden scales drifting to the ground like autumn leaves. "I... I am the heir of Bahamut. I cannot... will not..."
"Die?" Victoria's spear point pressed against his throat, drawing a thin line of ichor. "Everything dies, pretender. Even gods."
