The battle was over, but Arkonia still bore the scars of war. The city, once teetering on the edge of ruin, now stood as a testament to resilience. Fires had been extinguished, the streets cleared of debris, and the people, though weary, had begun the slow work of rebuilding.
The heirs stood atop the palace balcony, watching as their kingdom took its first steps toward recovery. They had fought, bled, and lost much, yet the weight in their chests told them that the true battle was far from over.
The dragon, its once-mighty form reduced to a shadow of its former self, lay at the heart of the palace ruins. Its golden eyes flickered weakly as it spoke its final words.
"The world was never broken—it was stolen. Find it before it's too late."
Then, with a final exhale, the dragon's body shimmered with golden light and faded into slumber, its duty fulfilled. The heirs exchanged uneasy glances. What did it mean? Who had stolen magic?
Sylvara, stripped of her remaining power, made her decision. "My hands are stained with too much blood," she said. "I will leave this land and atone for what I have done."
No one tried to stop her. They merely watched as she disappeared into the mist, her crimson cloak the last trace of her existence.
Days passed. The celebrations were subdued, laced with mourning. The heirs knew they had saved Arkonia, but the question of magic's disappearance remained unanswered. Magic had not returned. The world had changed in ways they didn't understand.
And so, they made their choices.
Veyra set off into the unknown, determined to uncover the truth behind the vanishing magic. Revyn took his place among the people, ensuring Arkonia's strength endured. Others went their separate ways, their paths uncertain but their hearts steadfast.
But far beyond the lands of Arkonia, in a forgotten corner of the world, a lone figure stood before an ancient, pulsating relic.
A faint smile curved their lips as they whispered, "They think they've won. But the real game is only beginning."