The Dying Arcane

The battlefield was silent. Not because the war had ended, but because the dead no longer screamed.

Ronan Vale stood among the ruins of Velmora, a once-glorious city now reduced to rubble and ash. The wind carried the scent of burning wood, scorched flesh, and something else—something unnatural. The war machines that had torn through the city still hissed with residual energy, their massive steel frames stained with blood. Smoke curled into the sky, blotting out the stars like a funeral shroud.

Ronan exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with exhaustion. His blade dripped with fresh blood, its steel dulled from battle but still deadly. He had lost count of how many men he had killed today. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more. It didn't matter. The city had fallen. His cause was shattered. And yet, he still stood.

He wiped his face, smearing dirt and blood across his cheek. His armor, once a proud silver, was now a tarnished mess of dents, scratches, and gore. The sigil of the Brotherhood of the Arcane—the faction he had sworn his life to—was barely visible beneath the grime.

The Brotherhood was dead.

His comrades, the last few warriors who still believed in the power of magic, had been cut down like animals. Not by soldiers. Not by war machines.

But by their own kind.

The betrayal burned deeper than any wound. The Brotherhood had been on the brink of reclaiming something—something ancient, something powerful. And yet, when it mattered most, they were slaughtered from within.

Ronan clenched his jaw. He would not die here. Not like the others.

A metallic click echoed through the ruined street behind him.

"Still breathing, Vale?" a voice sneered.

Ronan turned slowly. From the shadows of a collapsed tower, a squad of armored enforcers emerged. Their weapons hummed with energy—rifles infused with arcane residue, a sickening blend of magic and machinery. Technology had been advancing for decades, swallowing what little magic remained, twisting it into something unnatural.

The leader of the enforcers, a man clad in black combat gear, stepped forward. His face was partially covered by a visor, but Ronan could see the smirk underneath.

"You Brotherhood types just don't know when to stay dead," the enforcer continued, shouldering his rifle. "You should've taken the hint when your precious order was wiped out."

Ronan said nothing. He simply gripped his sword tighter.

The enforcer chuckled. "Still holding on to that chunk of metal? You're a relic, Vale. Magic is finished. The world has moved on."

Ronan took a slow breath. He could feel his muscles screaming in protest, his wounds bleeding beneath his armor. He was exhausted. He was broken.

But he was not finished.

"You talk too much," he muttered.

The enforcer's smirk vanished. "What did you just—"

Ronan moved.

A blur of steel and fury.

Before the enforcer could raise his rifle, Ronan was already upon him. His sword cut through the air, slicing into the man's chest, armor cracking beneath the force of the blow. Blood sprayed across the broken pavement as the enforcer staggered backward, gurgling.

The others shouted, raising their weapons.

Ronan didn't stop.

A shot rang out, grazing his shoulder, but he ignored the pain. He closed the distance, slashing through another soldier's throat. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood.

A third tried to retreat, fumbling to activate a mechanical gauntlet glowing with arcane energy. Too slow. Ronan's blade drove through his gut, pinning him to the wreckage of a fallen war machine. The man gasped, eyes wide, before the light left them.

Only one remained.

The enforcer leader had managed to recover, backing away with a snarl. He pulled a small device from his belt—a detonator.

"You think you've won?" he spat, blood dripping from his lips. "We already took everything from you."

Ronan stepped forward, sword lowered. "Not everything."

The enforcer laughed, coughing. "Your Brotherhood is dead. Your magic is dying. The world belongs to men like me now."

Ronan stared at him for a long moment. Then, without hesitation, he drove his blade through the man's chest.

The enforcer gasped, his body trembling. "You… can't stop this…"

Ronan twisted the sword. The man choked out a final breath before collapsing, lifeless.

Silence returned.

Ronan pulled his sword free, wiping the blood on his torn cloak. He took a shaky breath. His body screamed at him to rest, but there was no time.

He turned his gaze toward the horizon. Smoke and fire stretched as far as he could see. The world was changing. Magic was fading. Technology was taking its place.

But as long as he still drew breath, he would not let the arcane die so easily.

He would find those responsible for the Brotherhood's betrayal.

He would make them suffer.

And he would carve his vengeance into the bones of history.

The embers of magic had not yet burned out.

And neither had he.

---