Vel Theran, jewel of the empire, stood defiant beneath a storm-choked sky. Its towers pierced the clouds, its banners blood-red against the wind. At its gates stood soldiers in gilded armor, unaware they were already dead.
Rook came with the storm.
He tore through the outer wall like it was parchment. The guards fell like wheat beneath a scythe, Kharzug singing in his hands. Fire bled from stone as he carved a path through palace halls and screaming lords.
Every blow drove deeper into his soul, the axe feeding, hungering. But he felt no pain. Only momentum. Only wrath.
The High Lord awaited him in the throne room, flanked by elite warpriests, clad in runes and arrogance. Rook did not hesitate. He fought like death incarnate, and death obeyed. Blood painted the ivory floor, and the pillars collapsed with the force of his fury.
At last, it was only Rook and his brother.
No words. Just silence heavy with memory.
The High Lord raised a trembling sword. "You were always the stronger one," he whispered. "I had to take it from you."
Rook answered with his axe.
When it was over, he stood in the wreckage of the empire's heart, alone. The witch appeared one final time, shadows curling at her feet.
"Your soul is mine," she said.
Rook dropped the axe. It clattered, still hungry.
"Take it," he rasped. "There's nothing left."
She studied him. "Perhaps. Or perhaps this was your redemption after all."
He laughed, bitter and hollow. "Some men don't get redemption."
She smiled faintly. "No. But some leave legends."
And then she vanished.
The empire burned. And Rook, the Kinslayer, walked into the ash, leaving behind a world remade in wrath.