Lyr-Vale lasted seventeen days.
That was how long Heaven's "aid" held.
On the eighteenth, the grain spoiled.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
The purification arrays malfunctioned next—subtly, selectively. Wells near poorer districts turned bitter. Spirit lamps dimmed in places where Heaven's sigils had been quietly "misprinted."
No catastrophe.
Just pressure.
Enough to force a decision.
The city council argued until dawn.
Neutrality had always been their pride. Their shield. Their excuse.
But now merchants whispered of caravans turning back. Cultivators felt their progress stall. Children coughed in districts Heaven's aid no longer quite reached.
"He's doing this," one councilor said bitterly. "The Third Prince. He could stop it."
Another slammed the table. "He already told us the price!"
Silence followed.
And in that silence, the truth settled.
Heaven's aid came with invisible conditions.
Azrael's protection came with visible ones.
Lyr-Vale sent a second delegation.
This time, they came on foot.
Inside the Eastern camps, tension reached its own breaking point.
A faction calling themselves the Free Bound began to circulate quietly—cultivators and clans who enjoyed protection but resented oversight.
They spoke carefully.
"He preaches choice," they said. "But limits us."
"He says family," they said. "But families don't ration."
They did not rebel.
They eroded.
Nyxara caught the whispers first. Her patience was thin.
"Say the word," she told Azrael, eyes cold. "I'll end it."
Azrael shook his head. "No."
Seraphina frowned. "They're destabilizing trust."
"They're revealing it," Azrael replied.
He turned to Jin Yao. "What happens if I crush them?"
Jin Yao answered without hesitation. "You become Heaven with different symbols."
Azrael nodded. "Exactly."
The second delegation from Lyr-Vale arrived at dusk.
They bowed deeply this time.
No pride left.
"We accept alignment," their leader said hoarsely. "We accept your terms. Please—our city is failing."
Azrael studied them quietly.
Behind him, the camps watched.
This moment would echo.
"You waited," Azrael said calmly, "until necessity forced your hand."
The envoy swallowed. "Yes."
Azrael nodded. "Then listen carefully."
He turned—not to the envoys—but to everyone present.
"My protection is not an emergency service," he said evenly. "It is a structure. It works because people choose it before collapse."
He faced the envoys again.
"I won't extend the boundary to Lyr-Vale," Azrael said.
Shock rippled outward.
Seraphina inhaled sharply.
Nyxara stiffened.
The envoy's face went pale. "You'll let us die?"
Azrael shook his head. "No."
He gestured east—toward the boundary.
"I'll open a corridor," he continued. "Evacuation. Individuals. Families. Those willing to align may cross."
The envoy's hands trembled. "And the city?"
Azrael's voice did not harden.
It didn't need to.
"Cities don't get mercy," he said. "People do."
The reaction was immediate—and explosive.
Some praised the decision as just.
Others whispered cruelty.
The Free Bound seized the moment.
"See?" they murmured. "He chooses who deserves to live."
Nyxara stepped forward, fury barely contained. "That's not—"
Azrael raised a hand.
"Let them speak," he said.
He addressed the camps directly.
"I will not save symbols," he said calmly. "I will not preserve structures that refuse responsibility until collapse forces it."
He looked at the Free Bound faction.
"And I will not apologize for refusing to become what you're afraid of."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Necessary.
Above, Heaven's pragmatists observed quietly.
Their conclusion updated:
The Anomaly refuses to maximize survival metrics.
Prioritizes structural integrity over numbers.
Public refusal increases polarization.
One added a private note:
But stabilizes long-term gravity.
The evacuation corridor opened at dawn.
People fled Lyr-Vale—some grateful, some resentful, some furious.
The city itself dimmed behind them.
And the world understood something new:
Azrael would not save everyone.
And that made his protection worth more.
That night, Seraphina stood beside him at the boundary.
"You'll be hated for this," she said quietly.
Azrael nodded. "Already am."
She studied him. "You didn't hesitate."
"No," he replied. "Hesitation kills systems."
She was silent for a long moment.
Then: "I still choose you."
He met her gaze.
"I know."
Far away, the ancient dragon remnant watched the evacuation line and laughed—slow and amused.
Good, it thought.
He understands weight.
And deep within the world, something older than Heaven adjusted its attention.