A dark winter's night creeps over the land, clawing its way westward with icy fingers, belching chill snow round the Dark Lord's keep. But tonight, winter ends for the Master of Night; all ends for him. Tonight, he faces the inevitability of his own demise. The world was too similar to how it had been, too many coincidences to be mere chance. He has known for a while now that his final night draws near, its end wrought by his own cursed hands.
Sitting upon his sullied throne, the Dark Lord raps his crusted fingernails upon its pewter arm. Slowly, steadily, ever-gaining in frequency and intensity, he clicks his gnarled digits against the metal. Waiting. Eternally. Expectantly. For his sworn enemy's arrival.
Two heavy oak doors squeal on rusty hinges, seemingly propelled by the savage winter winds. The darkness of night obscures all beyond the keep's portal. Yet soon motion splits the shadows. Barely perceptible at first, the confident stride of a familiar cloaked figure gains in clarity as it gains in proximity. The Dark Lord's slayer cometh.
What had appeared to be confidence in gait was perhaps a mere illusion born of shadows and anticipation, as the figure limping through the great oaken doors can do little more than stand—this itself a minor miracle, after having cut through the demon hordes defending the battlements. Yet a fire burns in those eyes, fueled by righteous furor and glory-lust. In truth, it is the same fire that once raged within the coal-black eyes of the man sitting upon the pewter throne.
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The Master of Night muses back upon his flawed existence, wondering now what he should regret—if he should regret. Wisely, he sates his ego's thirst for blame with only himself. In the end, he knew that though the universe may have thrust a sword into his hand, it was he who chose to wield it.
Acceptance returns him to a long forgotten state—a state more legend than truth to him in recent decades. Absurdity absolves him of his sins and renews his trust in chaos. Now, he vows, now his enmity with destiny ends, at long last. Life's shackles unlock, freeing him from any fear of death. He leaves these heavy bonds to his slayer - a final yet unending irony.
Peace made with fate, the Dark Lord rises from his throne and raises a wrinkled hand into the air, lowering it as a clenched fist. Gnarled joints crack against his palm as his grip tightens, compressing the very air into powder. A forgotten passion temporarily reignites within the cold void of his soul; his coal-black eyes alight anew.
The battered warrior at the door gains the strength of a desperate man, drawing it from the unplumbed depths of his soul—a strength that bolsters his structure for a final assault on his chosen evil. He darts forward, the Master of Night responding in kind.
Their two voices erupt into twinned battle cries, echoing and crescendoing within the empty hall. Ever-closer drawing. Ever-fiercer growing. Until the moment they collide. The promised moment etched forever in time. The known moment expected ever since the slain realized whose flesh he had assumed those many moons ago.
Upon the warrior's blade the Dark Lord's body rests, his struggle now over, true peace finally attained. The beginning for one man is likewise his end.