And soon, her daughter would learn that hesitation had no place in their world.
The Dark Sovereign exhaled, her power thrumming through the ruins, the scent of charred flesh thick in the air. She stepped forward, her crimson heels clicking against the blackened earth, the sound alone enough to make the remaining survivors flinch.
She could feel them.
Every heartbeat. Every ragged breath. Every flicker of hope—a foolish, fragile thing that clung to life despite the inevitability of its end.
She had no need to seek them out. The shadows whispered their secrets, painting their fear in vivid detail, guiding her hand to the next souls awaiting their oblivion.
She did not hesitate.
The mother first.
She stood frozen, a child no older than six clutching her tattered skirts, wide, tear-filled eyes locked on the demon before them. A desperate hand flew to a crude knife, trembling fingers barely able to hold the pathetic weapon steady.
"Run," she whispered to the child, but there was nowhere to run.
The Dark Sovereign smiled.
"What touching devotion." Her voice was silk and poison, a melody of destruction.
The knife flew forward brave, but useless.
She didn’t need to move.
The blade stopped mid-air, frozen inches from her throat, the very air twisting around it. With a flick of her fingers, it reversed course, embedding itself into the mother’s chest.
The woman gasped.
The child screamed.
A sharp, high-pitched wail that tore through the silence like a jagged blade.
The Dark Sovereign crouched before them, her golden eyes gleaming as she gently cupped the mother’s chin, lifting her face.
"Why do you cry?" she asked softly.
The mother coughed, blood dribbling from her lips as she tried to shield the child, even as her strength faded.
"You—you monster—"
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The Dark Sovereign sighed.
"I tire of that word."
Her grip tightened, and the woman’s head twisted sharply—snap.
The body collapsed, lifeless, cradling the now-silent child.
There was no time for grief.
The Dark Sovereign rose to her full height, turning to the remaining soldiers, their faces painted with horror.
"Ah, you do know how to cower."
One of them, the least pathetic among them, gritted his teeth and charged. His blade burned with holy energy, desperate in its final stand.
She did not move.
The moment his sword came within reach, the air rippled—a distortion of reality, an unraveling of fate itself. The weapon disintegrated before it could reach her, dissolving into black embers.
His scream was short-lived.
She merely waved a hand.
His body followed—breaking apart, unraveling like a puppet with its strings cut. Scattered to dust before he even hit the ground.
She turned to the rest.
Silence.
"Who’s next?" she mused, stepping forward, the flames licking at her heels.
The soldiers trembled, some dropping their weapons entirely, scrambling to flee.
Cowards.
The abyss did not suffer cowards.
The sky split open, and from the darkness above, something descended.
A living void—writhing, twisting, hungering.
The soldiers barely had time to scream before the shadows swallowed them whole.
The Dark Sovereign inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly, feeling the life essence of those who had perished dissolve into nothingness.
It was not power she needed.
It was cleansing.
Her work here was done.
She turned, the smoldering ruins of what was once a village standing as a testament to her lesson.
The world would learn.
Hesitation was weakness.
Liria would learn.
Hesitation was death.
And soon, very soon, the world would tremble beneath the name that had long been buried in whispers.
A name that had been stripped from records, feared by kings and gods alike.
The true name of the Dark Sovereign.
She lifted her chin, allowing the abyss to coil around her like a living shroud, the fabric of reality bending to her will.
And as she disappeared into the void, her name echoed in the flames.
Azael Veyrith.
The Sovereign of Ruin.
And she had only just begun.
Azael Veyrith stood at the precipice of destruction, surveying the carnage with a detached sort of amusement.
The village no longer existed. Not in the way that mattered.
The scent of charred wood and burned flesh lingered in the air, curling around her like a lover’s embrace. The bodies—those that remained—were nothing more than lifeless husks, scattered like discarded dolls in a child’s forgotten playroom.
Pathetic.
She flicked a finger, and the embers of the smoldering ruins sparked to life, twisting into small, flickering shapes—ghostly silhouettes of the very people who had just perished. Mothers clutching their children. Warriors raising their swords in futile defiance. The old, the young, the helpless. All of them frozen in the flames, remnants of their final moments.
It was an art, really.
She stepped through the eerie display, her gown of shifting darkness trailing behind her, absorbing the dying heat of the fire. Let them watch, she mused. Let them see the reality of their mortality, the futility of their resistance.
Azael reached out, her clawed fingers brushing against the nearest flame-formed figure—a young girl, perhaps ten years of age, her face twisted in a silent scream.
With a whisper of power, the illusion shattered.
Nothing remained.
Just as it should be.
She tilted her head, golden eyes gleaming as she turned her gaze toward the night sky, where the heavens stretched vast and empty.
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She felt their presence—an itch at the back of her mind, a subtle weight pressing down on her existence. Pitiful creatures, bound by rules and laws they had created for themselves. Caged by their own fear.
None of them had dared to intervene.
Not yet.
They would, of course. Eventually.
Once they realized she was no longer bound by their precious celestial seal.
Azael smirked.
By then, it would be too late.
Her power thrummed beneath her skin, a symphony of destruction waiting to be unleashed. And she had every intention of making use of it.
But first—
She turned her gaze toward the horizon, where the whispers of shadows carried a familiar presence.
Liria.
A slow, predatory smile curled her lips.
Her daughter had played her part well.
Even now, she could feel it—Liria’s unease, the way she questioned herself, the cracks in her once-unshakable foundation.
It was beautiful.
The girl was close to breaking.
Azael didn’t need to force her.
She just needed to nudge.
Power alone was not enough to create true loyalty. It had to be cultivated, shaped.
And Liria was still young. Still uncertain. Still fighting against the inevitable truth that would one day consume her.
Azael would make sure of it.
With a flick of her wrist, the abyss responded, stretching and twisting as a portal formed before her. A doorway of liquid shadow, pulsing with an eerie, living hunger.
She stepped forward without hesitation, letting the void take her.
And as she vanished from the ruins of the village, her thoughts remained on the girl who would one day stand at her side.
The world would learn.
Liria Silverthorn was no hero.
She was hers.
And soon, there would be no doubt left in her heart.
Not of who she was.
Not of what she was meant to become.
Not of the fate that awaited them all.
Azael Veyrith, Sovereign of Ruin, disappeared into the abyss with a final whisper.
And the world trembled in her wake.
Azael Veyrith stepped out of the abyss and into the cold, shifting darkness of her domain. The air here was heavier, thick with the lingering remnants of ancient power—hers. The fortress that loomed before her, carved from obsidian and abyssal stone, pulsed faintly, its walls alive with shadowed veins of her influence. It had been centuries since she had walked these halls freely, and yet, it welcomed her as though she had never left.
Azael exhaled, amused at the irony. Even in exile, she had left an imprint on the world too deep to erase.
Her boots clicked softly against the polished black floor as she moved, her gown shifting like living smoke. The torches that lined the walls did not burn with ordinary flame but with darkfire—her creation, her will made manifest. They flickered in recognition of their master, casting long, eerie shadows that stretched toward her like eager hands.
She had returned.
And soon, so would her daughter.
Azael smirked, the mere thought filling her with satisfaction. She had felt Liria’s hesitation, the wavering in her resolve. It wouldn’t be long now.
The girl had already crossed the line.
Slaughtered. Burned. Conquered.
Liria had followed her orders, bathed herself in blood, wielded the abyss like it had always belonged to her.
Because it did.
She was merely resisting the inevitable.
But resistance, no matter how strong, would not last forever.
Azael knew exactly how to break her.
Her golden eyes glowed as she reached the heart of her stronghold, where the abyss pulsed like a living entity, feeding off the energy she exuded. It was here that she would wait.
Because no matter how much Liria still clung to the past, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she could be something else…
She would come home.
She always would.