Arkhan paused, looking at the young hero. He saw in her the same burning passion he had possessed centuries ago. For a fleeting second, he felt a pang of something he hadn't felt in ages: regret. He raised his heavy blade.
He turned away from the stunned warrior and walked toward the dark waters of the river, leaving his weapon, his army, and his empire behind. The legend of Arkhan the Conqueror ended that night, not with a clash of steel, but with a silent walk into the unknown.
He was not born a tyrant. Once, he was just a man with a desperate dream to unite the warring clans of the North. But power has a way of twisting noble intentions. To save his people, he had made a pact with an ancient, nameless entity. It gave him immortality and unstoppable might, but it stripped away his humanity. Now, he felt neither joy nor sorrow—only an endless, driving urge to conquer.
"I was once like you," Arkhan said, stepping forward. "Full of hope and righteous fury. But the world does not bend to the will of the pure. It bends to the strong."
Arkhan did not speak immediately. He reached down and touched the hilt of his massive greatsword, which pulsed with dark energy. A faint memory stirred in his cold heart, a memory of a time when he too believed in the light, when he too fought for hope.
"Prepare the vanguard," Arkhan said, his voice grating like grinding stone. "We march at midnight."