The collision did not end.
It ground on.
Authority pressed against authority—not clashing like blades, but compressing like worlds forced into the same space. The capital warped beneath the strain, stone bending and reforming as reality attempted—failed—to reconcile two laws that both demanded priority.
Azerion and Vaelor were driven apart—
—then dragged back together by forces neither would allow to yield.
The sky fractured into layered distortions, ash suspended unnaturally in the air, every particle awaiting command. Sound lagged behind motion, arriving late and warped, as though the world itself struggled to keep pace with what unfolded.
Vaelor struck the ground first.
His boots carved a crater into the palace square. Runes etched into his armor flared violently, several cracking outright as they absorbed pressure meant to flatten cities.
"You should not exist," Vaelor said, breath controlled despite the blood seeping from his mouth. "You are not bound to land. Not to lineage. Not to oath."
Opposite him, Azerion hovered, ash coiling behind his shoulders like a restrained storm.
"I am bound," Azerion replied evenly.
"Just not to excuses."
Vaelor extended both hands.
The world answered.
Sentinel Continuance — Pillar of Final Ground
Stone erupted upward in a vast ring, sealing the battlefield within a massive arena of reinforced reality. Gravity stabilized—
—then thickened.
The air grew heavy, locking the conflict into a space designed to endure gods and bury outcomes.
This was not mercy.
It was containment.
"If this ends," Vaelor said, stepping forward, "it ends here."
Azerion inclined his head once.
"Correct."
Vaelor vanished—not with speed, but with precedence.
He reappeared inside Azerion's guard, armored elbow crashing into Azerion's ribs. The impact folded air inward, shattering bone and hurling Azerion downward like discarded steel.
Stone liquefied beneath the impact.
Before the crater could settle, Vaelor descended with clasped hands.
World-Bearer's Judgment — Second Vector
The strike compressed space itself.
Azerion crossed his arms just in time. Pressure crushed inward instead of exploding outward, driving agony through muscle, bone, and ash alike. His knees slammed into the ground.
Blood burst from his nose and ears.
For the first time since the march began—
Azerion did not rise immediately.
Vaelor exhaled slowly.
"You feel it now," he said. "This is the weight of a nation's end. Your body was not made to carry it."
Azerion's fingers dug into the stone.
They trembled.
Then steadied.
Erevos' voice surfaced—not alarmed, not calm.
Certain.
Ashen Dominion stable.
Structural damage acceptable.
Authority integrity uncompromised.
Azerion pushed himself upright.
Blood streamed freely, staining the ash-dark ground beneath him.
"You misunderstand," he said quietly.
Ash tightened around him—denser, darker.
"I am not carrying Vareth's end."
The pressure shifted.
"I am deciding who survives what comes after."
Vaelor advanced, armor cracking under the strain.
"Then face me," he said. "Face what stands between extinction and memory."
Azerion raised one hand.
The ash sank into the arena floor, etching vast sigils—records, remnants, consequences of every life lost within the city. The dead did not rise.
Their weight did.
Ashen Dominion — Grave Accord
Vaelor staggered as unseen mass pressed down upon him—not crushing, not suffocating, but condemning. Every step grew heavier, each movement resisted by the accumulated cost of Vareth's history.
"Debt," Azerion said.
"Collected."
Vaelor roared and forced himself forward. Armor split as runes burned out one by one. He tore through the pressure by sheer obligation, closing the distance.
They collided again.
No restraint.
Vaelor's strikes were precise—honed by centuries of waiting.
Azerion's were brutal, decisive—each blow carrying finality rather than form.
Vaelor shattered Azerion's collarbone with a gravity-laced strike.
Azerion answered by detonating ash inside Vaelor's armor, tearing flesh from steel.
A blade of condensed force pierced Azerion's side—
—ash flooded the wound before blood could escape.
They separated, both breathing hard.
Vaelor laughed softly.
"So this is how Vareth ends," he said. "Not to kings. Not to gods."
Blood poured freely from beneath his armor.
"But to consequence."
He raised both hands.
The last of the runes ignited.
Sentinel Termination — Last Horizon
The arena began to collapse inward.
Not explode.
Erase.
Space folded toward a single vanishing point centered on Vaelor, consuming stone, ash, light itself. This was not meant to kill Azerion.
It was meant to remove everything.
Ash burned away at the edges. Dominion strained.
Erevos' voice sharpened.
Authority conflict exceeding stable thresholds.
Recommendation: decisive termination.
Azerion stepped forward.
Ash gathered—not violently, not wildly—
—but with absolute clarity.
He raised his hand.
Ashen Dominion — Final Mandate
The words did not echo.
They concluded.
The ash surged—not to resist erasure, but to overwrite it.
The collapsing horizon stalled—
—cracked—
—then shattered as Azerion's authority asserted absolute claim.
Vaelor screamed—not in pain, but in defiance—as his final law unraveled.
He fell to one knee.
Armor split.
Runes dead.
Breathing ragged.
Azerion stood before him—bloodied, ash-wreathed, unmoved.
Vaelor looked up.
"…Then strike," he said quietly. "Let the record show I stood."
Azerion did not hesitate.
He raised his hand.
Ash condensed—not as a blade, not as a weapon—
—but as judgment given form.
"One nation," Azerion said calmly,
"ends here."
The strike fell.
Vaelor Thane unraveled into ash and silence—existence severed cleanly.
No explosion.
No aftermath.
Only absence.
The arena dissolved.
The capital lay exposed beneath a sky choked with falling ash.
And somewhere beyond the horizon—
kings and gods alike felt it.
A guardian had fallen.
And something far worse—
still stood.h