The "Song of the Grave" vibrated through the air, turning the very atmosphere into a weapon. The Silver Eagles, usually so composed, clutched their ears as their mana began to leak out of them like a mist.
The Targeted Cruelty
Lyra landed gracefully in the center of the square, her eyes locked onto Elara.
"The Water Spirit," Lyra purred, her voice weaving through the discordant hum. "The perfect coolant for a raging heart. If I remove you, little bird, the prince will have nothing left to hold him back."
With a flick of her wrist, Lyra unleashed Necrotic Requiem. Violet shockwaves slammed into Elara, shattering her water barriers. Elara's spirit, Nix, let out a high-pitched trill of pain before dissipating into a puddle.
"Elara!" Leo screamed. He tried to run toward her, but the Ghouls closed in, their rotting bodies forming a wall of gray flesh.
The Psychological Siege
"Don't look away, Leo," Lyra laughed, her fingers dancing in the air as if playing an invisible harp. "This is the world the Magic King built for you. A world where your friends suffer because you are too weak to embrace your truth."
She summoned a spear of solidified necrotic sound. It hovered inches from Elara's throat. Elara looked up, her face pale, her eyes finding Leo's through the chaos.
"Leo... don't," she gasped, sensing the shift in his mana. "Don't let her... win."
The Internal Pressure
Inside Leo, the dam was breaking. The "oily heat" was no longer a pulse; it was a flood. He could feel the Hellfire clawing at the back of his eyes, demanding to be let out.
"They are mocking us," the white-haired man's voice echoed in his mind. "They are treading on your heart. Will you let her die for the sake of your 'control'?"
Leo's plant magic began to mutate. The green vines he had summoned to protect the villagers turned a sickly, charred black. They didn't grow; they seethed.
The Appearance of the Void
Just as Leo was about to snap, the shadows beneath his feet elongated. From the darkness emerged Umbra, the Right Hand. He didn't speak, but his presence brought a freezing cold that rivaled the heat of the Hellfire.
Umbra didn't attack Lyra or the Ghouls. He stood between Leo and the path to Elara, a living wall of nothingness.
"The Choice," Lyra announced, raising her hand to strike Elara. "Die as a weed, or rise as the Flame."
The Final Spark
Leo looked at Mara, who was pinned down by a dozen Ghouls. He looked at the terrified villagers. Finally, he looked at Elara, who was seconds away from being executed by the Shadow Council.
The memory of his grandfather's warning—"Never lose control... especially when you're angry"—clashed with the reality of the massacre before him.
"I don't care about the throne," Leo whispered, his voice dropping into a register that wasn't human. "I don't care about the crown."
He looked up at Lyra, and for the first time, his eyes weren't brown or red. They were two pits of swirling, black-red suns.
"I just want you to burn."
A silent shockwave rippled out from Leo. The purple fog was instantly incinerated. The ground beneath his feet turned into molten glass.