The first sign was the silence.
No screams echoed across the basalt plains. No ashstorms roared through the chasms. Even the ever-present groan of shifting stone seemed to still, as if Hell itself were holding its breath.
Thomas felt it long before he saw it.
Something was coming—not summoned by the Circle, but allowed by it.
The Ashen Horde had grown since the Arbiter's judgment. Those who survived learned quickly. They copied Thomas's movements, mimicked Liora's restraint, watched Eddric's precision. They stopped charging blindly. They stopped screaming.
They started thinking.
That terrified Hell far more than violence ever could.
A ripple of unease passed through the ranks as a distant shape emerged from the smoke—tall, broad, and impossibly composed. Where other demons bore the scars of transformation, this one looked refined, his form sculpted rather than twisted.
He wore a crown.
Not upon his head—but embedded into it.
Jagged circlets of gold and iron were fused directly into his skull, shattered crowns from fallen kings, warlords, and tyrants. Their sigils still glimmered faintly, crushed and bound together into a mockery of sovereignty.
Liora stiffened. "No…"
Eddric's voice dropped to a whisper. "Malrik's lieutenant."
The demon stopped several paces from Thomas's line. His armor was polished obsidian, etched with conquest runes. His eyes burned with controlled, ancient fury.
"I am Vareth the Crownbreaker," he said, his voice smooth and deliberate. "Lord of Broken Crowns. Commander of the Sixth Dominion."
The Ashen Horde recoiled instinctively.
Thomas did not.
Vareth's gaze settled on him, amused. "You are smaller than I expected."
Thomas clenched his claws. "And you talk more than I imagined."
A thin smile cracked Vareth's lips.
"I have come," Vareth continued, "because you have done something… offensive."
He gestured behind Thomas at the Horde. "You have preserved weakness. You have delayed culling. You have convinced the Circle that failure can be instructive."
Vareth stepped closer, and the ground blackened beneath his feet.
"I built my dominion on truth," he said. "Only the ruthless ascend. Only the violent endure. Mercy is decay."
Thomas met his gaze. "Then your dominion is already rotting."
The smile vanished.
Vareth moved faster than thought.
One moment he stood before them—the next, Thomas was hurled backward, smashing through an obsidian spire. Pain flared as stone shattered around him.
Before Thomas could rise, Vareth seized a demon from the Horde—a woman whose arms still shook from transformation.
"Observe," Vareth said calmly.
He crushed her.
Not violently. Casually. Her body collapsed into ash and molten bone in his grip.
"Leadership," Vareth said, dropping the remains, "is not about preservation. It is about efficiency."
Rage surged through Thomas, hot and blinding.
He charged.
Their clash cracked the plateau.
Thomas's claws scraped against Vareth's armor, sparks flying, but the Crownbreaker did not stagger. He struck Thomas across the chest, runes flaring as pain tore through molten veins.
Vareth leaned close. "You feel it, don't you? The Circle watches me differently. I am inevitable. You are… experimental."
Thomas planted his feet, resisting the pressure. "Experiments change outcomes."
Vareth laughed—a deep, amused sound. "Then change this."
The sky darkened.
From the distant wastes, banners of black fire ignited—Vareth's legions, disciplined and merciless, marching toward the Ashen Horde.
"Choose," Vareth said softly. "Kneel, and I will absorb your followers. Resist… and I will demonstrate why mercy does not survive Hell."
Thomas looked back at the Horde.
They were afraid.
But they were watching him.
Waiting.
For the first time since falling into Hell, Thomas understood the truth fully.
Survival was no longer his greatest challenge.
Leadership was.
He turned back to Vareth, molten veins blazing with controlled fury.
"No," Thomas said.
Vareth's eyes gleamed. "Good."
The Lord of Broken Crowns spread his wings.
"War, then."