The crowd stood in silence. The sky was painted a deep shade of red, as if the world itself mourned him. The wind swept through the abandoned square, stirring the dust that lay over the cobblestone streets stained with blood. Elandor's body lay still, motionless. His armor was shattered, his sword slipping from his trembling fingers.
Varenoth stood over him, watching the hero's fall with deep satisfaction. Once, they had feared Elandor. Once, the people had stood beside him. But now, no one moved. No one cried out.
Elandor struggled to breathe, his body feeling as heavy as stone. He knew there were no more chances left. As he lifted his head slightly, he gazed upon the city he had once sworn to protect. Shadows shifted behind the windows, but no one stepped out onto the streets.
Varenoth smirked. "Do you see now, Elandor? You were never a hero–just a tool. The people never truly stood with you. They followed you only as long as you were useful. Now, they fear me more than they ever believed in you."
Elandor's eyes filled with pain–not from death, but from truth. The people he had fought for had abandoned him.
Elandor tried to rise, but his body refused to obey. Pain surged through him, sharp and unrelenting, as blood soaked the broken pieces of his armor. Once, these plates had protected him–now, they bore only the marks of defeat.
The crowd still stood there, silent. Their faces were blank, as if the world itself watched his final moments without feeling. There was no anger, no sorrow. Just indifference.
Varenoth stepped forward, kneeling beside Elandor. His fingers brushed the ground, tracing the blood that pooled beneath the fallen warrior.
"You once feared death," he murmured, his voice cold and piercing. "You once fought without reason, without hesitation. But look around, Elandor. There is no one left who would fight for you."
Elandor did not answer. Because he knew the truth.
The pain was different now–no longer physical, but deeper, cutting into his soul.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze, looking at the city one last time. Shadows moved behind the windows, yet no one stepped forward. Once, these streets had echoed his name, calling for the hero who had protected them. Now, not a single voice rose in his defense.
Varenoth straightened. There was no need for a sword to end Elandor's story–the people had already done it for him, through their inaction.
Elandor's body trembled from the cold, though the air was suffocatingly warm. It was not the chill of the wind that froze him, but the silence of the people. He was alone. The fallen hero whose name had once lived in legends, now nothing more than a dying man's unspoken plea.
Varenoth slowly turned, his back now facing the hero, as if he had already become nothing more than a shadow of the past.
"They do not speak your name," he said softly, eyes glancing over the crowd. "No hand reaches for you. And do you know why? Because you were never truly their hero. You were a shield, held high only when they needed you."
Elandor's lips parted as if he wanted to answer, but no words came. The pain no longer came from his wounds–it came from something deeper, something that could never heal.
Once, when he had fought for them, when he had bled for their freedom, the people had glorified him. But slowly, their faces lost the light of admiration, the fire of devotion dimmed. He had not changed, had not weakened. It was the people who had.
And now, here he was–bathed in blood, abandoned, left to die in silence in a world that no longer had a place for him.
Varenoth did not laugh. He did not need to. His victory was complete without celebration, because he knew–Elandor understood.
The final breaths broke the silence. The sky burned red, like a farewell before the sun faded beyond the horizon.
The crowd slowly turned away, none wishing to witness the last moment unfold.
And then–when no one was watching–Elandor smiled one last time.
Because he finally understood.
It was not death that was the true defeat. It was that they had left him alive to die.
Of course! Here's the English translation of the dramatic continuation:
Elandor felt the pain fading. Not because it had lessened, but because his body had begun to abandon sensation. The end had come.
His eyes slowly closed, his final breath trembling on his lips. The sky burned red above him, as if the world itself was grieving.
But the people did not move.
Varenoth watched him, then let out a quiet sigh as he crouched beside the fallen warrior. His fingers brushed against the blood-stained stones, as if he were paying his respects—or merely savoring the weight of the moment.
A slow smile curled across his lips.
"They betrayed you. They let you die. But do not fear, Elandor… I will not forget you."
The hero's eyes fluttered open, mustering the last of his strength as Varenoth's words struck something deep inside him.
"The world turned its back on you. And now, I will show them the true cost of betrayal. The people thought that by standing still, they could avoid their downfall. But they were wrong. Now, they will see the world they have created."
His voice was cold, merciless, but undeniably true.
Elandor could not respond. His vision blurred as the world faded around him.
His breath broke.
His body became still.
The wind swept through the abandoned square, stirring the dust.
Varenoth slowly straightened, his eyes scanning the silent crowd.
"And now… they will all pay."
The crowd stood motionless.
They did not dare to look. They did not dare to speak.
Elandor's body had finally gone silent, and for a moment, the world itself seemed to stop. The wind swept through the streets, carrying a coldness that did not belong to the air, but to the weight pressing down on the city.
Hands that had once raised banners in his name now trembled. Lips that had once shouted words of praise now remained sealed in quiet.
A child clutched at his mother's robes, confusion flickering in his gaze as he stared at the unmoving figure. He did not fully understand what had happened—only that something had been lost.
The elders wore bitterness on their faces. They had seen war. They had seen blood. But never before had they witnessed a world stand in silence while its own protector was left to die.
Then Varenoth raised his hand.
"You rejected him. You let him die. Now look at yourselves—who will save you now?"
For a moment, every breath seemed to catch in throats.
Elandor was gone.
But now, the people truly understood what that meant.
It was not just a hero who had died.
Hope had died with him.