The sound of hooves thundered through the burning ruins of entrance to the Grand Palace.
Over a dozen Wardens arrived on horseback, their armor reflecting the glow of the shattered heavens. Behind them came members of the Roman Branch of the Order, bloodied but alive.
And from above—descending through the clouds—floated two men cloaked in light, symbols carved in forgotten tongues blazing upon their robes.
The Apostles of the Slavs — Methodius and Cyril.
Their feet touched the ground with quiet weight. Even through exhaustion, their presence calmed the earth itself.
Azazel turned to them, his ash still faintly swirling around his body.
"We'll talk later," he said, voice raw but steady. "After… all of this."
Methodius smiled faintly. "So I was right. You really are him." His eyes narrowed, studying the glow in Azazel's amber eyes. "Maksym. My instincts didn't lie back then."
Azazel shook his head. "No. My name is Azazel Weyer now—disciple of Grandmaster Aurelius de Montferrat, and grandson of Johann Weyer."
At his words, the ash-like tattoos on his body flared to life. The particles of gray spiraled toward his hand, condensing on a single object—
The bronze dagger.
The Wardens froze, murmuring in disbelief as they realized who stood before them.
Azazel turned toward them, his voice cutting through the night.
"I'll deal with the asteroid."
He didn't believe his own words—but there was no one else left to try.
Blood dripped from his nose; his body screamed from exhaustion. Yet the air around him shimmered with grim resolve.
He added, with a grim smile,
"Stay back. The shards… will be yours."
Methodius stepped forward, placing a hand on Azazel's shoulder. The world grew lighter.
"You are not alone," he said simply.
At once, Cyril raised his staff, murmuring in Old Church Slavonic. A healing light spread through Azazel's torn body; warmth returned to his limbs.
The dagger in his hand began to glow brighter, its bronze blade turning white with holy fire.
Methodius whispered a short prayer, and smiled with a touch of nostalgia.
"That dagger… yes. It's the same one. Brings back memories."
He exhaled softly. "We'll have to gather the old company again… once this is over."
Azazel didn't answer. He stepped forward—and dissolved.
Ashen Step.
He vanished into a spiral of smoke and reappeared high in the air.
Then again. And again.
Twenty… thirty times, he tore through space itself, each jump leaving streaks of burning ash behind him.
The higher he went, the hotter the air became—the asteroid now looming above him like a second moon.
His clothes were scorched to tatters. His hands, translucent with overuse of power, began to crumble into ash.
The dagger in his grasp burned with impossible brilliance, radiating white and gold.
He smiled through the pain.
"Thank you, Methodius. I want to see Lybid and Kyi."
He grasped the dagger in both hands and hurled himself upward—straight toward the falling mountain of stone.
The world blurred around him.
As the colossal mass filled his vision, blotting out the stars in the night sky, Azazel gathered the last of his strength.
His heartbeat slowed; everything else fell silent.
He whispered his own prayer—his final invocation:
"Ash of the slain, light unconfined,
No heaven guides—no hell can bind."
Then his voice rose in a roar that cracked the air:
"Ashen Judgment!"
Fire erupted.
The dagger flared like a newborn sun.
Space itself split before him as his blade met the asteroid—
and the world burned white.