Necessity is heavier than authority.
Azrael learned that within a week.
The Azrael Accord did not arrive with trumpets or banners. It arrived with ledgers, patrol schedules, grain tallies, medical tents, and disputes that could not be erased with pressure alone.
People didn't kneel.
They lined up.
To be counted.
To be fed.
To be protected.
And each name added weight.
Ashara reviewed reports until dawn. "Population influx has tripled. Independent clans are requesting arbitration. Two neutral cities want inclusion without relocation."
Nyxara frowned. "That many people under one boundary invites parasites."
Seraphina folded her arms. "It also invites hope. Which is harder to manage."
Azrael listened, expression unreadable.
"They're not wrong," he said finally. "All of them."
He looked out over the camps—now more permanent, structured, alive.
"This is the cost," he continued calmly. "When people choose you, they expect consistency."
No one argued.
Heaven tested that consistency immediately.
Not with judgment.
With absence.
Trade routes once stabilized by Heaven-certification quietly collapsed. Weather patterns went uncorrected. Old protections failed without replacement.
Not an attack.
A vacuum.
Cities outside Azrael's boundary began to suffer.
And then they sent envoys.
Desperate ones.
Jin Yao escorted the first delegation—hands clasped, posture precise.
"They want protection," he said quietly. "But not alignment."
Azrael raised an eyebrow. "They want shelter without gravity."
"Yes."
Azrael considered that.
"Send them away," he said calmly.
Seraphina looked at him sharply. "That will cost lives."
Azrael met her gaze. "So will pretending I can save everyone."
Silence followed.
Not disagreement.
Understanding.
That night, the first riot broke out inside the camps.
Two clans clashed over resource allocation—both claiming seniority, both invoking Azrael's name.
Nyxara intervened first, presence snapping the conflict like a blade through rope.
"Your dispute is internal," she said coldly. "Do not weaponize him."
Azrael arrived moments later.
He didn't punish.
He restructured.
New allocation tiers.
Rotating oversight.
Clear consequences.
The riot ended not in blood—but in rules.
Ashara exhaled slowly afterward. "You're building a state."
Azrael shook his head. "I'm building a boundary that survives people."
Above, Heaven watched quietly.
Not intervening.
Recording.
Analyzing.
A new internal faction emerged—neither old authority nor reformist.
Pragmatists.
Their conclusion circulated privately:
If the Anomaly collapses under responsibility, intervention becomes unnecessary.
They would let necessity do the work.
Seraphina felt the strain first.
Not exhaustion—exposure.
Every decision she reinforced echoed outward. Every failure would, too.
"You're becoming indispensable," she said quietly to Azrael as they walked the boundary at dusk.
He nodded. "That's the danger."
She stopped. "You don't regret it."
"No."
She searched his face. "Then what worries you?"
Azrael looked out at the lights of the camps, steady and countless.
"That they'll stop choosing," he said. "And start assuming."
She understood immediately.
Far away, something old stirred—drawn not by power, but by reliance.
An ancient dragon remnant, long dormant, opened a single eye.
Something has taken responsibility without claiming divinity.
Interest followed.
And interest, in ancient beings, was never harmless.
Azrael felt the distant ripple and smiled faintly.
"Good," he murmured. "Let's see who thinks necessity is weakness."