The Burning Ashbringer

Darian knew he was no match for his father. Everything he knew came from Mograine, so Darian fought with two swords instead.

But against Mograine, it was all futile. Darian couldn't do anything but defend himself. Soon, the armor he had just stripped from Captain Repas's corpse was reduced to rags beneath the Ashbringer's blade, and blood stained the ground around them.

"Darian, my son, you shouldn't have come here."

Seated upon his death charger, Mograine slowly approached Darian. He looked down at his kneeling son, raising the Ashbringer, wreathed in green flames, until its point aimed at Darian's head.

"You're not my father! You're just a spirit possessing his body. My father—the hero of Southshore, the Scourge's enemy, the master of the Ashbringer—Alexandros Mograine would never bow to the Undead!"

Darian lifted his head and met Mograine's gaze, his eyes filled with defiance.

"Ah—get out of my father's body!"

Darian braced himself on his twin swords and stood once more, charging at Mograine. Not a trace of warmth showed in Mograine's cold eyes. The icy Ashbringer pierced Darian's chest, and hot blood trickled down the blade, drop by drop, onto the ground. Darian stared blankly at the Ashbringer in his chest. He let go of his longswords and clutched the Ashbringer with both hands, gripping it with all his strength.

Darian wasn't a Paladin, but at that moment, he prayed over and over in his heart. He begged the Holy Light to warm him, to reignite the Ashbringer in his hands. Unfortunately, one couldn't cram at the last minute after neglecting one's studies all along—not even the Holy Light would answer.

So Darian could only watch, full of anguish, as Mograine pulled the sword from his chest. Then he collapsed to the ground.

"Fool."

Mograine glanced contemptuously at Darian's