The ruins slept.
Ash and stone had fused seamlessly, the altar buried beneath layers of scorched earth and ancient wards. To any eye—mortal or noble—it was nothing more than another forgotten scar in a forest already heavy with graves.
Azerion stood at the edge of the clearing for a long moment.
He felt her.
Not as a voice.
Not as words.
As presence.
A constant warmth behind his sternum, faint but unyielding—like an ember stitched directly into his soul. It did not comfort him.
It reminded him.
That she was neither gone… nor returned.
For half a breath, the forest blurred.
Ash and moss dissolved into the scent of lavender and smoke. His fingers twitched, tightening as if reaching for someone who was no longer there.
"Ser—"
The name caught in his throat.
He closed his eyes.
Control returned.
It always did.
But each time, it took something with it.
He exhaled slowly.
No answer came.
And that was worse than silence.
The dead who speak give hope.
The dead who remain silent demand resolve.
"Location sealed," the Core reported.
"Detection probability: negligible."
"Recommended distance before recalibration: five kilometers."
Azerion nodded once.
"Calen," he said without turning. "Can you walk?"
Calen leaned heavily on his sword, teeth clenched, blood darkening the forest floor beneath him. "I'll crawl if I have to."
"That won't be necessary."
They moved.
The forest shifted as they traveled—paths subtly bending, shadows stretching unnaturally long. Azerion felt it then: pressure, faint but persistent, like unseen eyes grazing the back of his neck.
Not pursuit.
Search.
The Eastern Court was already sweeping.
"Multiple surveillance signatures detected," the Core warned.
"High Noble divination residue present."
"Recommendation: deviation."
Azerion adjusted course instantly, stepping off solid ground into a shallow ravine choked with roots and moss. One controlled slash—ash flared outward, devouring their tracks, their scent, even the residual mana clinging stubbornly to Calen's blood.
The forest forgot them.
They did not stop until dawn.
When they did, Calen collapsed.
He struck the forest floor hard, breath tearing in and out of him like broken bellows. Azerion knelt beside him, pressing two fingers to the man's neck.
Alive.
Barely.
"Commander…" Calen rasped. "You shouldn't waste strength on me."
Azerion removed his gauntlet.
Ash coiled around his bare hand—thin, precise, obedient.
"You followed me into hell," he said quietly. "You don't get to die here."
He pressed his palm to Calen's chest.
The ash seeped inward.
Not healing.
Stabilizing.
Calen gasped as the agony dulled, eyes widening. "What—what was that?"
"Not mercy," Azerion replied. "Control."
The Core's voice lowered, more deliberate than ever.
"Ashen Continuance secondary effect observed."
"User influence over residual life-force increased."
"Technique unsuitable for mass application."
"Cost escalation confirmed."
Azerion withdrew his hand.
Calen lay still for a moment, then gave a weak laugh. "You've changed."
"Yes."
Not for the better.
Power does not announce itself with warmth.
It announces itself with restraint.
By midday, smoke rose on the horizon.
A settlement.
Too close to the capital's patrol routes to be safe.
They watched from the ridge as banners snapped in the wind—Eastern Court colors, freshly raised. New cloth. Fresh authority.
Azerion's eyes narrowed.
"They're not just searching," Calen said. "They're sending a message."
"They want me to run loud," Azerion replied. "Make mistakes."
His blade hummed softly at his side, ash circling the hilt like a living thing—no longer wild, no longer hungry.
Waiting.
"They won't find me," he said. "Not yet."
Calen hesitated. "And after?"
Azerion's gaze hardened.
"After, I stop hiding."
The Core pulsed.
"Long-term trajectory recalculating."
"Threat escalation inevitable."
"Suggested resource acquisition: forbidden zones, abandoned battlefields, divine remnants."
Azerion turned away from the settlement.
"Then that's where we're going."
Those who fear darkness run from it.
Those who understand it choose where to stand.
Night fell too fast.
The forest grew quiet—not peaceful, but alert. The kind of silence predators recognized. The kind that pressed against the ears and waited.
Calen stiffened. "Do you feel that?"
"Yes."
Three shapes stepped from the dark.
Not soldiers.
Not beasts.
Their armor was matte black, etched with sigils designed to drink light itself. Masks concealed their faces completely—featureless except for thin crimson slits where eyes should be.
Ash recoiled instinctively.
"Designation identified," the Core said, tone sharpened.
"High Noble retrieval unit."
"Codename: Black Oath Inquisitors."
"Known trait: no vital signs detected."
"Conclusion: operatives do not bleed."
One of them spoke, voice layered and distorted.
"Azerion of the Ashen Legion.
By authority of the Eastern Court, you are to be taken—alive if possible."
Calen drew his sword despite trembling hands. "Commander—"
Azerion stepped forward.
"No."
Ash ignited.
Not violently.
Not recklessly.
It moved like discipline given form—spiraling tightly around his blade, condensing until the air fractured under the pressure.
"You don't take what belongs to me anymore," Azerion said.
The forest shuddered.
The Inquisitors attacked.
Steel met ash.
They moved in perfect silence.
When Azerion struck the first, his blade pierced clean through the chest.
No blood spilled.
The armor hollowed inward instead—ash flooding the space where life should have been, collapsing the Inquisitor like an empty shell.
The second fell moments later, mask cracking only after impact with the ground.
The third hesitated.
Fear slipped through discipline.
It turned and fled.
Azerion did not pursue.
Calen stared, chest heaving. "You could've finished him."
"Yes," Azerion replied. "But fear travels faster than corpses."
He watched the darkness swallow the fleeing shape.
Vengeance rushed is noise.
Vengeance patient becomes law.
The Core's voice settled—calm, irrevocable.
"Transformation confirmed."
"Old operational profile obsolete."
"New designation suggested."
Azerion looked toward the dark horizon, where empires ruled and gods watched in silence.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."
Names are for legends.
I am still becoming.
He turned, ash trailing behind him like a promise.
Somewhere beneath stone and silence, Serenya waited.
And the world—unaware, unprepared—
had begun to move.