Azerion stopped.
Not because he was forced to—
—but because he chose to.
The imperial armies surged forward at Vaelric Thorne's signal. Tens of thousands moved as one—shield walls locking, sanctified banners rising, war-priests chanting invocations meant to drown the field in borrowed divinity.
They were soldiers.
Not conspirators.
Not architects of lies.
Azerion saw it immediately.
And he stepped back.
The ground did not claim him. The sky did.
Ash spiraled upward, folding into itself as space bent obediently. The immortal throne emerged from storage, unfolding behind him like a remembered truth. Azerion sat—not heavily, not regally—
—but deliberately.
High above the battlefield, suspended in the ash-choked sky, the throne anchored reality around it. From there, Azerion looked down upon the war he refused to turn into a massacre.
Erevos surfaced quietly.
You are withdrawing from direct engagement. Clarification: emotional motive detected.
Azerion's expression did not change.
"They are being used," he said.
Acknowledged. Lieutenants will compensate.
Below—
Calen felt it.
The moment Azerion sat upon the throne, the chain tightened.
Power did not explode outward.
It settled.
Lieutenant Calen drew his ash-forged spear and slammed its butt into the ground.
"Formation: Cinder Wall," he commanded.
The Ashen soldiers moved instantly.
Frontline units locked shields formed from condensed ash and Vareth-forged alloy, overlapping at precise angles. The shields did not glow—they absorbed.
The first imperial charge hit them like a tidal wave.
Steel rang.
Men screamed.
But the line did not break.
Imperial knights empowered by sanctified augmentation struck with crushing force—only to feel their strength bleed away with every impact.
Ash drank excess force.
Behind the wall, second-rank soldiers knelt and activated Gravepulse Array.
A low-frequency ash resonance rippled outward.
Imperial formations staggered as muscle memory faltered, movements desynchronizing. Not paralysis.
Disruption.
"Advance!" Calen roared.
The Cinder Wall pushed forward—not fast, not slow—inevitable.
—
On the left flank, Lieutenant Maera raised both hands.
Her eyes burned with layered sigils as she invoked Ashen Continuum: Vital Loop.
Wounded Ashen soldiers did not fall.
Ash stitched flesh mid-motion, bones realigning as they fought. Pain existed—but death did not linger long enough to claim them.
Imperial healers panicked.
Their miracles could not keep pace.
Their divine reserves drained faster than they could channel them.
Maera stepped forward calmly as arrows and spells veered away from her presence.
"Non-lethal where possible," she ordered.
Ash obeyed.
Enemy soldiers were bound at the knees, weapons fused to the ground, lungs compressed just enough to steal breath without stopping hearts.
Mercy—
—but not weakness.
—
On the right flank, Lieutenant Kael activated Black March Protocol.
Ash flowed beneath his soldiers' feet, hardening into a shifting terrain only they could read.
Imperial cavalry charged—
—and shattered.
Horses stumbled as ground angles shifted unnaturally. Riders were thrown, disarmed, pinned by ash tendrils that wrapped and locked joints with surgical precision.
Kael moved through them like a shadow, striking pressure points, disabling rather than killing when possible.
But when sanctified elites entered the field—
His eyes hardened.
Grave Severance.
Ash condensed along his blade, cutting not flesh—
—but enchantment.
Blessings unraveled.
Augmentations collapsed.
Men who had believed themselves chosen realized, too late, that borrowed power always came with an expiry.
—
Above it all—
Azerion watched.
Every death registered.
Every injury echoed faintly along the chain.
His fingers tightened once on the armrest.
He did not stand.
He would not step down—
—not yet.
Erevos monitored relentlessly.
Lieutenant performance optimal. Soldier synchronization increasing. Casualties minimized at statistically improbable rates.
A pause.
Your restraint is altering outcome probabilities.
"That's the point," Azerion replied quietly.
The imperial center buckled first.
Not from loss
but from realization.
Their formations were being read.
Every adjustment was met with a counter before the command even finished leaving an officer's mouth.
They were fighting an army
but facing a mind above them.
The Emperor watched from the capital walls, face pale.
"They're not breaking," he whispered.
Vaelric Thorne stood beside him, expression carefully neutral.
"Of course not," Vaelric said. "He's testing us."
The Emperor looked skyward.
At the throne.
At the man seated upon it like judgment deferred.
"He could end this," the Emperor said.
"Yes," Vaelric agreed softly.
"And he hasn't."
Something unreadable flickered behind Vaelric's eyes.
As the sun dipped lower, the battlefield changed tone.
Imperial losses mounted not catastrophic, but demoralizing. Ashen soldiers advanced steadily, formations rotating seamlessly, wounded pulled back and returned moments later.
This was not conquest.
It was containment.
Azerion finally spoke his voice carrying across the sky.
"Withdraw," he said.
The word settled into every Ashen mind at once.
Formations disengaged cleanly. Bound soldiers were released. Paths opened.
No pursuit.
Confusion rippled through the imperial ranks.
Azerion rose from the throne
but did not descend.
"I did not come to kill your people," his voice echoed. "I came to remove the lie ruling them."
His gaze locked onto Vaelric Thorne.
"You will step forward," Azerion said. "Or I will."
The air thickened.
Divine pressure answered.
From the capital gates
The Emperor moved.
And beside him
Vaelric Thorne smiled.
The small dogs had fought.
Now
The battlefield was ready for monsters.