He let go.
Then it dissolved. The mercury tears splashed to the ground and became simple morning dew.
The mist surged. The Weeping General rose, drawing a shadow-sword from the air. The two figures circled the shattered throne—one a legend of grief, the other a man made of quiet rust. the misty ruins and the lone swordsman
The dais was shattered. Vines had strangled the onyx throne. And waiting there, seated upon a fallen pillar, was the —a creature born of the mist and the shame of the fallen dynasty. It wore the rusted armour of the Citadel’s last defender. Its face was a smooth, featureless mask of grey stone, save for two cracks where tears of mercury wept endlessly.
He walked past the Hall of a Thousand Lanterns, now a skeletal ribcage of iron and rot. He passed the Fountain of Youth, now a dry well choked with thorns. Each step was a memory of a war he had not won, a friend he had not saved. He let go
Today, he was not running.
"I am not here to forgive," the swordsman said. His voice was low, raw, unused. "I am here to bury." The mist surged
The clash, when it came, was not a symphony. It was two anvils colliding in a fog. Sparks died instantly in the damp air. The swordsman’s nicked blade caught on the General’s ethereal steel. They strained, eye-to-stone-eye.