The first moves were not announced.
They never were.
Vaelric Thorne did not march an army.
He released incentives.
Across the Eastern Court and beyond, sealed letters arrived bearing no crest—only promises. Power. Protection. Favor from gods who still answered prayers.
Minor lords accepted first. Then mercenary companies. Then sanctified orders that had long since forgotten why they existed.
None of them knew they were weapons.
They only knew where to point.
—
The first incursion struck a border town once loyal to Vareth.
Night fell unnaturally fast. Fog rolled in, thick with consecrated sigils. Men wearing borrowed authority cut through defenses with blades humming in unfamiliar tones.
They expected resistance.
They found ash.
The ground moved.
Not erupting—closing.
Soldiers of the Ashen Sanctuary emerged without banners, without sound. Their armor did not shine. Their eyes did not burn.
They advanced like inevitability.
Lieutenant Kael—once a nameless survivor—raised his hand.
"Contain," he ordered.
The chain responded.
Ash surged through his veins, authority rippling outward. Soldiers beneath him felt it instantly—backs straightening, breath syncing, movements tightening into lethal cohesion.
Enemy spells fractured mid-cast.
Borrowed divine light sputtered and died.
This was not a battle.
It was a demonstration of hierarchy.
Those who dropped their weapons were bound—not by chains, but by ash that read intent. Those who fought were erased quickly, efficiently, without spectacle.
At dawn, the town still stood.
The invaders did not.
—
The second move was subtler.
A religious envoy arrived at a neutral city, preaching salvation from the "Ash Tyrant." They spoke of corrupted relics, of blasphemy, of a man who dared to wear the bones of dead gods.
Crowds gathered.
So did ash.
Lieutenant Maera arrived without armor, her presence alone silencing the square. She listened until the envoy finished, hands folded calmly.
Then she spoke.
"You are not chosen," she said gently. "You are funded."
The envoy tried to invoke his patron.
The prayer failed.
Maera placed her palm against his chest.
Ash spread—not burning, not crushing—revealing.
Every lie surfaced. Every bargain exposed. The crowd saw the truth etched into the air like a confession written in smoke.
Some fled.
Some knelt.
Those who knelt were given a choice.
Conversion was not mercy.
It was alignment.
Those who refused were removed before nightfall.
—
Reports stacked quickly.
Three proxy armies eliminated.
Two religious orders dismantled.
Seven covert cells converted or erased.
Erevos compiled the data.
Enemy operational doctrine confirmed. Lord Vaelric Thorne employs external actors to test responses, gather data, and exhaust resources.
Assessment: inefficient against current chain structure.
Azerion stood unmoving as the reports flowed past him.
"They're learning," Calen said. "Slowly."
"They always do," Azerion replied.
"But he's not trying to win," Calen added. "Not yet."
Azerion's eyes narrowed.
"No," he said. "He's mapping us."
—
Far away, Vaelric Thorne reviewed the same outcomes with mild interest.
"They adapt quickly," one advisor murmured nervously.
Vaelric adjusted a cufflink, expression serene.
"They should," he replied. "I paid the gods enough."
He gestured, and the basin shifted—showing ash soldiers moving in perfect chain formation, lieutenants acting as living conduits.
"See?" Vaelric continued. "He builds an organism. Not an army."
"And you?" the advisor asked.
Vaelric smiled.
"I build pressure."
He turned toward a map layered with sigils—trade routes, refugee flows, dormant cult sites.
"Release the third wave," he said calmly. "The ones who don't know they're involved."
—
The third move hurt.
Refugee caravans were attacked and framed as Ashen reprisals. False banners appeared. Manufactured atrocities spread faster than truth ever could.
Neutral nations began to close borders.
Whispers turned poisonous.
Azerion watched it unfold in silence.
"They want us isolated," Maera said. "Feared."
"They want me provoked," Azerion corrected.
He turned to his commanders.
"Handle it," he said.
No further instruction was needed.
Ashen agents moved quietly—disrupting false cells, exposing planted evidence, dismantling rumor networks at the source. In some regions, entire factions collapsed overnight when their true patrons were revealed.
In others—
There was no revelation.
Only removal.
Azerion did not leave the sanctuary.
He did not need to.
These were small blades.
Vaelric Thorne was not.
—
Erevos surfaced with a final update.
Enemy proxy effectiveness declining. Primary threat remains centralized. Lord Vaelric Thorne continues to escalate personal power acquisition.
Probability of direct confrontation: increasing.
Azerion placed a hand on the immortal throne.
"Let him sharpen every knife," he said quietly.
Ash curled around his fingers.
"I'm done fighting weapons."
Far away, Vaelric Thorne paused mid-ritual, a faint tension crossing his flawless posture.
Something was no longer pushing back.
It was waiting.
And both men understood the same truth—
The pieces were almost set.
Soon, there would be no one left to fight for them.
Only each other.