Dawn broke over the barracks with a crimson hue, as though the sky itself had been wounded during the night. Thin mist clung to the packed earth, curling around boots and wooden posts, while the clang of steel and shouted orders echoed across the training grounds.
Azerion stood at the edge of the yard, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded.
He did not need to look to see.
The Core pulsed quietly within him, a steady rhythm beneath his ribs, attuning his senses far beyond the limits of ordinary men. Every shift of weight, every quickened breath, every whispered exchange carried on the cold morning air unfolded clearly in his perception.
Tension had been building for days.
This morning, it finally showed its fangs.
A unit of soldiers moved into formation for drills—but the order was wrong. Not careless. Deliberate. Their lines crooked unnaturally, shields bumped when they should have aligned, and arrows loosed during warm-up volleys veered wildly off course.
One struck the dirt dangerously close to a young recruit's foot.
The boy flinched, panic flashing across his face.
"Hold formation!" a sergeant barked—but his command was ignored.
Azerion's gaze sharpened.
He recognized the pattern now. This was no accident, no nervous mistake of green soldiers. It was sabotage, carefully masked as incompetence. A slow poison meant to erode discipline, sow doubt, and—when the moment came—place blame squarely on him.
At the center of it all stood a familiar figure.
One of his former rivals.
The man barked conflicting orders, his lips curled in a thin, mocking smile. His eyes flicked toward Azerion, daring him to intervene.
The recruits were unraveling.
Confusion spread like fire through dry grass.
That was enough.
Azerion stepped forward.
The ground seemed to hush beneath his boots as he crossed into the training yard. The Core stirred, its presence seeping into his limbs—not violently, not explosively, but with terrifying control.
"Enough."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
It cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
The wind stilled. Torches along the perimeter flickered unnaturally, their flames bending inward as though drawn toward him. Even the soldiers mid-motion froze, muscles locking, breaths caught halfway.
Azerion's eyes swept across the formation.
"Stand down," he continued, tone steady yet absolute. "Step aside now, and you will be spared disgrace. Persist in this farce, and you will answer to me personally."
The rival stepped forward, laughter sharp and hollow.
"You think a few whispered rumors make you our commander?" the man sneered. "You think power alone earns loyalty?"
He spread his arms wide.
"We are many. You are one."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Azerion smiled.
It was faint—but it carried no warmth.
"You misunderstand," he said quietly. "I do not need your loyalty."
The Core responded.
Shadows at his feet twisted unnaturally, stretching beyond their natural reach. Loose stones trembled, lifting inches from the ground before hovering in slow, deliberate circles. Dust spiraled upward, suspended in invisible currents.
No explosion.
No spectacle.
Just undeniable proof.
Azerion's gaze locked onto the rival's eyes, and in that instant, the man felt it—a pressure against his mind, not invasive, but revealing. Every hesitation, every buried fear, every selfish thought laid bare.
"You fear irrelevance," Azerion said calmly. "You fear being forgotten. And you mistake chaos for strength."
The man staggered back a step.
The surrounding soldiers murmured, unease rippling through their ranks.
Azerion raised one hand—and the stones dropped.
The moment passed.
"No blood will be spilled today," he said. "Return to your duties. Spread your poison elsewhere if you must. But know this—your shadows are visible to me now."
One by one, the conspirators retreated.
They did not bow.
They did not apologize.
But fear clung to them like frost.
As the drills resumed—this time properly—whispers spread faster than the morning wind. Azerion felt it clearly: awe, resentment, dread. Even among those loyal to the nobles, doubt had taken root.
That night, the training yard lay quiet beneath torchlight.
Azerion remained alone, running his fingers along the worn grip of a practice blade, thoughts heavy. Power came easily now—but restraint was a constant battle. The Core showed him too much, stripped men down to their ugliest truths.
Footsteps approached softly.
He did not turn.
Serenya stopped beside him, her presence gentle yet grounding. Torchlight reflected in her eyes as she studied him, concern softening her expression.
"You handled them well," she said at last, resting a hand on his shoulder. "But I saw it… the anger."
Azerion exhaled slowly.
"It was there," he admitted. "But it does not rule me."
He looked at her then, the hardness in his gaze easing. "The Core does not inflame rage—it reveals truth. And the truth is this: jealousy rots men faster than war ever could."
Serenya stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest.
"Then do not face it alone," she murmured. "Promise me that."
He hesitated only a moment before nodding.
"I promise."
For a fleeting instant, the world felt distant. The barracks, the politics, the looming war—all faded beneath the quiet warmth of her presence. She anchored him, reminded him of why he endured.
But peace was fragile.
As night deepened, the signs appeared.
Missing supply crates.
A loosened saddle strap discovered moments before patrol.
A fire in the stables—small, contained, but undeniably intentional.
Azerion stood beneath the stars as the embers cooled, the Core pulsing steadily.
Not alarmed.
Warned.
"Shadows grow bolder when hesitation is mistaken for mercy,"
"Trust wisely. Act deliberately."
He clenched his jaw.
"I will not falter," he whispered—to the wind, to the mountains, to Serenya standing steadfast beside him. "I will rise. I will protect what matters. And I will uncover the darkness before it dares strike fully."
High above the camp, unseen eyes watched.
Envy smoldered.
Patience thinned.
The first strike had failed.
But the game had only begun.