The clang of steel and the cries of the dying tore through the battlefield. Blades met shields, arrows darkened the sky—but in the rear line, one man struggled even to lift his own defense.
Mud clung to Azerion's boots like chains. His shield felt impossibly heavy, his arms trembling as though filled with molten lead.
"Azerion! Keep up, damn you!" his captain snarled.
He stumbled forward, barely raising his spear as arrows hissed past his head.
Laughter erupted behind him, sharp and cruel, even as men bled and screamed.
"Dead weight."
"Coward."
"Why bring him at all?"
Azerion's cheeks burned. He swallowed his shame and swung his spear with all his strength—but the strike went wide. An enemy soldier lunged, blade flashing.
Azerion froze.
Steel would have split his skull if another soldier hadn't stepped in at the last second—killing the enemy with a clean, practiced strike.
"Useless," the man spat, not even sparing Azerion a glance.
By nightfall, the battle was over.
The nobles drank to their "glorious victory," laughing beneath torchlight. Azerion, bruised and aching, dragged his battered body away from the campfires to the quiet outskirts of the encampment.
There, as always, waited Serenya.
She rose when she saw him, relief flickering across her face before worry took its place. Without a word, she guided him to sit and began cleaning his wounds.
"They said nothing new today," she murmured softly. "I hope."
Azerion let out a bitter laugh. "They don't need to. Their eyes say enough." He looked away. "I'm useless. A burden they're forced to carry."
Serenya paused. She cupped his face, gentle but firm, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"To them, maybe," she said. "But not to me. Not ever."
For a moment, something warm settled in his chest.
As she leaned back, the pendant resting against her collarbone shimmered—just faintly, like a dying star.
Azerion noticed the glow. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Weeks passed.
Nothing changed.
If anything, his name became a joke whispered openly. Captains mocked him in front of recruits. Comrades no longer bothered hiding their contempt.
Still, Azerion endured.
At night, Serenya's smile was the only thing that kept him standing.
Then came the expedition.
A scouting party was ordered into the mountain range beyond the frontier—tasked with charting a forbidden cave long avoided by the army. Azerion was assigned without explanation.
He knew why.
"This is perfect," one soldier whispered as they marched. "No one will care if the weakling dies."
Another snorted. "He'll probably trip on a rock and do us the favor himself."
Azerion said nothing.
When the cavern mouth finally yawned before them, ancient and black, dread coiled tight around his heart. Strange cracks of pale light pulsed within the stone, as if something beneath was breathing.
They went in.
The deeper they walked, the heavier the air became. The ground trembled faintly beneath their boots.
Then—
Hands shoved him.
Hard.
Azerion barely had time to gasp before his footing vanished.
"No—!"
His scream echoed as darkness swallowed him whole. He crashed against jagged stone, pain tearing through his body. Something snapped. Warm blood pooled beneath him as his vision blurred.
Above, voices faded into cruel laughter.
"Good riddance."
But in the abyss, something stirred.
Eyes unseen opened.
A presence older than gods pressed into his breaking soul, vast and cold.
"So…" a voice whispered, echoing inside his very bones.
"Even the forgotten may rise."
Azerion lay shattered, breath shallow, life slipping away. With the last of his strength, he forced his lips to move.
"…Yes…"
Light erupted.
It surged into his veins, searing flesh and spirit alike. The cavern shook as if the world itself recoiled.
"Then Supremacy shall be yours—"
the voice intoned, ancient and merciless,
"—but what you rise as will no longer be human."