Molten fire, ruptured earth, collapsing and shattered ruins, ceaseless impacts surging down into the ground—even after the battle had ended, waves of cracking, splintering booms still rose from deep underground. The foundations beneath this abandoned royal capital must have been torn to pieces during the battle. Given more time, these ruins would probably be utterly—or perhaps not entirely—destroyed by earthquakes.
Yhorm lay sprawled across a circular assembly hall that might once have been a debating chamber centuries ago. A massive hole had been blasted through his chest. For an ordinary person, losing all their internal organs would have been a fatal injury. But "fatal" only applied to mortals. For a Lord of Cinder like him, who had long since abandoned his mortal body, such an injury would merely leave him unable to move for several days.
It wasn't fatal, but a defeat was still a defeat.
Surtr stood less than three meters in front of him. Liquid flames still dripped endlessly from the Coiled Sword onto the parched ground.
"You lost," Surtr said flatly—and she truly meant it. There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in her voice. "Your duty as a Lord of Cinder and your oath as a guardian end here. I will take the Profaned Flame and use it to rekindle the First Flame in the near future."
"You are the victor. You have that right." For the first time, a voice emerged from the Giant King's mouth: a broad, low middle-aged male voice. The absence of lungs did not affect a Lord of Cinder's speech. He released his grip, and the greatsword he had been clutching dropped limply. "To be able to fight the legendary First Lord of Cinder is... my honor."
Miss Surtr tilted her head slightly and looked toward a fissure in the ground