He traveled solo to the Ashen Plains.
He reached the site at dawn on day two positioned on the craggy ledge where he and his father had initially examined the chasm. Beneath him Hopes Respite nestled behind its reclaimed barriers smoke from breakfast fires drifting into the sky. It appeared delicate. Treasured.
The Plains had undergone a transformation, between him and the settlement.
A structure made of silk and flickering shadowy energy had been constructed. In front of it rows of flawless demonic warriors were assembled their armor shining faintly. On one flank General Raziel remained next to his beast, his face unreadable. On the side Valentina Rhodes watched over everything like an overseer, in a museum.
And on a simple throne of basalt in the center of the pavilion sat Vernia Vouw.
From afar her existence exerted a force upon the world. She embodied both allure and fear her strength not a blazing fire but a profound magnetic attraction. She appeared not as an intruder, in this place; she seemed the awakened sovereign of the land.
She noticed him away. She remained seated. She just. Motioned for him to come closer.
Every instinct urged Cassiathon to flee to strike, to take any action except stroll, into the lions lair.. That was the outdated mindset. The mindset of weapon or prey. He was neither. He was a declaration.
He went down the hill. Crossed the ruined terrain. The infernal legions split silently before him. He sensed Raziel's piercing stare, the attention of Valentina's. He halted twenty feet away, from the throne.
"Greetings, Cassiathon " Vernia spoke. Her tone resembled the earth—tired, mighty unavoidable. "You arrived. I was certain you would. The draw of heritage is fierce. The draw of a compassionate soul is stronger."
"I'm present " he spoke, his voice modest yet distinct, amidst the silence. "Cancel the conversion. Spare these individuals."
Vernia inclined her head. "A straightforward appeal. I respect that. Yet it is not a discussion. This " she indicated the enclave "represents the past. Grasping fearful fading. I am what lies ahead." Her gaze met his. ". You, my child serve as the connection. You embody the conclusion of things and the resistance, to finish. You embody the contradiction to guide the ancient realm into the modern one not through a shout but through a whisper.
She leaned in closer. "Come with me. Not, as a tool. As a philosophy. United we won't dominate life. We will... Shape it. Lead it toward a tranquil everlasting balance. No more battles. No more grief. The exquisite eternal dusk."
It was the falsehood the mirrors revealed, yet more magnificent more alluring. It guaranteed a conclusion, to the strain that characterized him. The calm he had admitted to Kuro Kane.
He sensed the draw. Within his Abyssal core it echoed like a chord.
He clenched his fist around the orb his father had handed him. The sensation of designated conclusion.
"I have witnessed that calm " Cassiathon remarked, looking into her eyes. "It's a coffin. I am not a passage to your dusk. I am the barrier, between your eternity and their present."
Vernia's smile remained steady though it turned colder. "A wall can be shattered.. Circumvented." She glanced at Raziel.
The General clenched his fist. Emerging from behind the pavilion a troop of demons advanced, accompanying six individuals, from Hopes Respite—not warriors. Elders and youngsters their expressions marked by fear.
"These serve as your anchors don't they?" Vernia inquired gently. "The distinct lights you strive to defend. You mentioned safeguarding life. Fine. Guard these lives. Submit your will to me. Commit yourself to my cause. They return safely to their homes untouched. Decline…" She allowed the meaning to linger.
It was the perfect, cruel refinement of the trap. Not an army against an army. A moral equation with only one solution.
Cassiathon gazed upon the youngsters and the resolute shaking elders. He sensed the ties binding him to them—not bonds but ties of mutual destiny of united purpose. The Weaver had been correct. They were his support.. She was poised to break them.
He had arrived to decide. Now the decision lay before him more dreadful than he had anticipated.
He gazed at Vernia Vouw, the Queen of his source sensing the grey demise and the purple turmoil swelling inside him not opposing but fused in a frantic shared resolve.
The duel was not to be one of power, but of will. And it had already begun.