The throne woke at dawn.
Not with sound.
With pressure.
Azerion felt it before Erevos spoke—an unfamiliar weight pressing inward rather than outward, as if something ancient had finally decided he was heavy enough to acknowledge.
Ash slowed.
Wind stalled.
Even the sanctuary's ever-present hum dimmed, as though the world itself leaned closer.
Azerion opened his eyes.
The throne stood exactly where it had been left beneath the open sky—dark stone, ancient metal, runes dulled by age yet unbroken. But now those runes pulsed faintly, not with authority, not with command—
—but with endurance.
Erevos surfaced, voice altered.
New classification detected. Relic status revised.
Designation: Immortal Relic — Old God Origin
Condition: Dormant for multiple eras
Trigger: Proximity to fragmented Old God Core (Erevos)
Azerion did not move.
"Old God," he said quietly.
Confirmation. This throne is not a symbol of rule. It is a remnant of survival.
The runes ignited—slow, deliberate. Not blazing, not violent. Each symbol awakened as though remembering how to exist.
Energy began to bleed from the throne.
Not divine radiance.
Not mortal mana.
Something older—denser—refined through annihilation and persistence.
Azerion stepped closer.
The moment his hand touched the armrest, the sanctuary reacted.
Ash surged upward, not chaotically, but in spiraling layers. The ground cracked beneath Azerion's feet—not from force, but from compression. Space itself folded inward around him.
Erevos' tone sharpened.
Energy transfer initiated. Immortal residue detected. Compatibility: partial—progressive assimilation recommended.
Azerion exhaled once.
"Do it."
The throne answered.
Ash erupted—then sealed.
A cocoon formed around Azerion, thicker than the first, layered with condensed ash, blackened stone, and veins of glowing runes torn directly from the throne's surface. The structure was not protective.
It was reconstructive.
Inside, Azerion's body unmade itself.
Bone dissolved and reformed, reinforced by immortal latticework. Flesh was stripped to raw essence and rebuilt strand by strand. Blood thickened, darkened, infused with enduring energy that refused decay.
Pain existed.
But it no longer mattered.
Erevos narrated with clinical precision.
Mortality parameters destabilizing. Cellular regeneration exceeding human thresholds. Immortal anchoring successful—partial integration complete.
Status update: — Mortal limitations removed. — Immortality incomplete. — Subject classified as Half-Mortal / Half-Immortal Entity.
Azerion's shattered collarbone aligned and fused seamlessly. Old scars vanished—not healed, but rewritten. His heartbeat slowed, deepened, each pulse carrying weight like a drum struck in the foundations of reality.
Outside the cocoon—
The chain began.
Calen staggered first.
He dropped to one knee, breath ripping from his lungs as ash flooded his veins. His muscles tightened, restructured, authority flooding into him uninvited.
Maera cried out softly as her ash alignment surged, spinal damage that had once required constant management vanishing entirely. Her healing affinity expanded, branching into reconstruction rather than repair.
Across the sanctuary—
Lieutenants screamed or gritted their teeth as power cascaded downward.
Not gifted.
Triggered.
Erevos observed.
Chain Ascension confirmed. Primary source: Azerion. Lieutenant amplification: proportional resonance. Secondary soldier uplift detected.
Soldiers training in the lower terraces froze as ash slammed into their bodies, reforging muscle, sharpening perception, deepening endurance. Weapons hummed louder in their grips, responding to masters who had suddenly stepped closer to something beyond human.
This was not blessing.
It was alignment.
The stronger Azerion became—
—the stronger everything bound to him followed.
When the cocoon finally cracked, it did so silently.
Ash peeled away like shedding skin.
Azerion stepped forward.
He did not glow.
He did not radiate power.
He contained it.
Eyes darker now—not with corruption, but with depth. His presence bent attention without effort, a gravity formed from survival rather than dominance.
Erevos stabilized.
Assimilation complete. Immortal relic partially synchronized. Further growth possible through throne resonance cycles.
Azerion turned to the throne.
"So you were never meant for kings," he said.
The throne pulsed once.
Acknowledgment.
"You were meant to remember gods who refused to die."
The throne did not deny it.
Calen approached, still adjusting to the new weight in his limbs.
"What just happened to us?" he asked.
Azerion met his gaze.
"I grew," he said simply.
Calen looked around as soldiers steadied themselves, eyes burning brighter, postures stronger.
"…And we followed."
"Yes."
Maera stepped closer, studying Azerion with something between awe and fear.
"You're not fully immortal," she said.
"No," Azerion replied. "And I don't intend to be."
He turned his gaze eastward.
Toward courts untouched by ash.
Toward a noble who smiled too calmly behind sealed vaults.
"Immortals stagnate," Azerion said. "I endure."
Erevos surfaced one final time.
New threat vector prioritized. Lord Vaelric Thorne: confirmed catalyst of Serenya's death. Probability of future interference: absolute.
Azerion's voice dropped.
"Begin preparations," he said. "Not for war."
Calen straightened.
"For what, then?"
Azerion placed a hand on the throne's cold surface once more.
"For correction."
Far away, deep beneath the Eastern Court, Lord Vaelric Thorne shivered as restraints around his vault relic tightened without command.
Something had changed.
The throne had awakened.
And the man who took it—
Was no longer entirely something that could be killed.