They came expecting a duel.
Kael Morvane stood at the ravine's edge with men who had broken cities and silenced rebellions—veterans, contracted steel, executioners who believed themselves history's punctuation mark.
The ash parted.
Azerion stepped forward.
Morvane smiled—until Azerion's gaze passed over him.
Not through him.
Past him.
As if Morvane were already finished business.
"You survived," Morvane said.
Azerion did not answer.
"Look at me," Morvane snapped. "Look at the man who—"
Azerion turned at last.
His expression was calm. Distant. Almost bored.
"You mistake survival for relevance," Azerion said.
"Whatever role you once played in my life has already ended."
Morvane's hand tightened around his sword. "You think power excuses arrogance?"
Azerion's voice remained even.
"No," he said.
"Power removes the need to pretend."
He regarded Morvane properly now.
"You are not worthy of me raising my blade.
Not worthy of my ash.
Not worthy of my attention."
The words fell like a sentence already carried out.
Azerion stepped aside.
"Calen."
Calen walked forward, spear dragging lightly through the ash.
Morvane laughed once—sharp, disbelieving. "You send another man to die?"
Azerion did not look back.
"I send proof."
The Ravine Answered
The first charge never reached Calen.
Ash surged upward—snapping legs, folding armor inward, stealing breath. Momentum betrayed men mid-stride, hurling them sideways, crushing them into stone, impaling them on their own formations.
Calen moved through it.
Not rushing.
Not hesitating.
Working.
His spear punched through a chest and did not slow. He twisted, crushed a throat with the shaft, drove the blade through another man's eye, tore it free, and advanced again.
Morvane forced his way forward, blade flashing, desperation sharpening every movement.
He reached Calen.
Their weapons clashed once.
Calen shattered Morvane's helm with his forehead.
The next strike pinned Morvane's leg to the ravine wall.
The third drove steel through his chest—deep enough to anchor him, shallow enough to keep him screaming.
"You made him bleed," Calen said quietly.
"That crime does not fade."
Around them, nothing lived.
Azerion approached at last.
"You will return," he said.
"You will live long enough to watch your kingdom answer for you."
Morvane wept.
No Return
Azerion did not go back to the Sanctuary.
He did not wait for vengeance to crawl toward him.
He gathered his soldiers—those forged in ash, abandonment, and refusal.
"We march," he said.
No cheers followed.
Only resolve.
The Kingdom Sealed
Kael Morvane's kingdom saw the sky change before it saw the army.
Ash spread outward and downward, folding reality into a vast, suffocating dome. Roads vanished. Rivers curved inward. The horizon closed like a clenched fist.
No one could leave.
Azerion stood above the capital, ash coiling beneath his feet.
His voice rolled across the land—clear, controlled, absolute.
"People of Vareth."
"Hear the name you were given, for it ends today."
"I am Azerion."
"I come not as conqueror, but as consequence."
"Civilians—those who do not command armies or profit from blood—flee now."
"Abandon banners. Abandon allegiance."
"You have until the ash falls silent."
"After that, I erase power."
The ash stilled.
Then began to fall.
The King Stands
The palace did not panic.
It awakened.
Ancient wards ignited, drawing authority stored across generations. Towers flared. Sigils carved into the capital itself burned alive.
On the palace steps stood King Aldric Vareth.
Around him stood five nobles—each a weapon the kingdom had never needed to reveal.
"So," Aldric said, his voice carried by layered wards,
"the monster comes himself."
Azerion descended.
"You ruled," Azerion replied,
"by borrowing violence and calling it distance."
He gestured once.
"Lieutenants."
The Sanctuary's commanders stepped forward.
Calen smiled faintly.
"Try not to bore me."
The nobles attacked.
Split Battle
The city shattered into war.
Calen met his noble head-on, space warping around the man's body.
"You think ash makes you equal?" the noble sneered.
Calen drove his spear forward.
"I think it makes you honest."
Elsewhere, lightning tore streets apart. Gravity inverted. Blood burned. Buildings collapsed as lieutenants clashed with power meant to defend crowns—not survive real combat.
This was not easy.
This was earned.
Azerion vs. the King
Aldric raised his hand.
The city's remaining authority poured into him.
"You should have stayed a myth," the King said.
"Kings can fight myths."
He struck.
The blow drove Azerion through three buildings before he stopped mid-air, ash bleeding from his shoulders.
Azerion smiled faintly.
"So this," he said,
"is what your bloodline saved."
They collided.
Every strike bent the skyline. Aldric burned years of his life for power, flesh cracking even as it strengthened.
"You think destroying us makes you feared?" Aldric roared.
"It makes you hunted!"
Azerion caught the King's blade bare-handed.
"No," he said.
"It makes you remembered."
He drove Aldric across the palace steps.
Bleeding, laughing, the King spread his arms.
"If I burn," he snarled,
"you burn with me."
Runes ignited across his body—self-destruction seals.
The air screamed.
Azerion stepped forward.
Placed a hand on the King's chest.
The detonation collapsed inward—and failed.
Ash unraveled it.
Azerion leaned close.
"…Pathetic."
The word crushed harder than the blast.
"You traded a kingdom," Azerion said softly,
"for a tantrum."
The city still burned.
The nobles still fought.
The kingdom still resisted.
But it now understood—
This was not a warning.
This was the beginning of erasure.