The desert groaned. The sands shifted like an ocean stirred by something beneath, ripples racing outward across the barren expanse. Lucien felt it in his bones—the way the void shivered in warning, like an animal shrinking from a predator.
Ashveil's cloak fluttered despite the stillness. His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the horizon. "So. He's awake."
A voice slid across the dunes, smooth as silk, sharp as glass.
"Awake? Dear brother… I never slept."
From the heart of the desert, flames rose—not wild, but controlled, sculpted into spirals that reached for the sky like pillars of a cathedral. The air thickened with heat, yet carried the weight of reverence, as though the world itself bent to the one arriving.
A figure emerged from the blaze. He wore no armor, only a mantle of black fire that coiled around his body like living silk. His hair fell in dark strands, his eyes gleamed like molten gold, and his smile was that of a man who had already won.
"Infernal Ashveil," the summoner had called him. But his true voice carried its own introduction:
"I am Veythar. The Revenant of Dominion."
Kairo instinctively raised his weapon. Lucien didn't move. His gaze was locked, sharp, studying every detail of this new presence.
Ashveil took a single step forward, cloak trailing behind him, arrogance returning like a mask. "Veythar… still drunk on theatrics, I see."
Veythar's laughter was quiet, refined. "And you, brother, still pretending arrogance can hide your hesitation." His eyes swept over Lucien and Kairo. "Ah. So you've already attached yourself to strays. Fitting."
Lucien's blade hummed faintly with voidlight, but he stayed silent. There was something in Veythar's tone—every word dripped with control, as though he weren't speaking to them, but through them, shaping the battlefield before it even began.
Ashveil didn't hesitate. His cloak snapped as he vanished forward, striking with speed that shattered the ground beneath him. His fist, wrapped in voidlight, met Veythar's palm.
The collision did not explode outward—it collapsed inward. The air screamed as space itself folded, sand and stone imploding around their clash. When it snapped back, a crater yawned beneath them, fire and shadow spilling outward.
Veythar didn't flinch. He smiled. "Stronger than before. Good. I would hate to be bored."
With a flick of his wrist, Ashveil was thrown back across the desert, cloak whipping violently. He twisted midair, landed in a crouch, and sprang back with a snarl. This time his strikes came faster—hooks, elbows, a void-edged sweep of his leg.
Veythar caught each one with insulting ease. His movements weren't rushed; they were deliberate, efficient, and beautiful. Every parry was a gesture, every counter a statement: you cannot touch me.
Lucien's hand tightened around his blade. Kairo whispered, "We're not watching a fight. We're watching a lesson."
Ashveil roared, drawing on the void, his silhouette bending the light around him. He struck with enough force to cleave stone mountains. Veythar stepped aside, cloak of flame brushing against his brother's strike, and pressed two fingers against Ashveil's chest.
The impact sent Ashveil sprawling, blood spraying across the sand.
"Pathetic," Veythar murmured, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder. "This is what you've become? A performer? A clown draped in shadows, posing for mortals while forgetting what you are?"
Ashveil spat blood, forcing himself up. His grin returned, though broken. "Better a clown than a tyrant."
That single word cracked Veythar's smile. His gaze sharpened, gold turning molten. "Tyrant? No. I am command made flesh. When I speak, armies kneel. When I walk, kingdoms burn."
Lucien stepped forward, blade lifting. Kairo mirrored him, bloodsteel curling from his wrist. Ashveil's laughter rattled in his throat, almost hysterical.
"Well then," Ashveil wheezed, wiping his mouth, "let's see how command handles defiance."
The three moved as one. Lucien cut with precision, blade weaving arcs of white void that bent reality's seams. Kairo tore through the ground, bloodsteel striking upward like living chains. Ashveil, battered but unbroken, hurled himself back into the fray.
For the first time, Veythar raised his hand fully, not to parry, but to strike. The desert ignited. Flame pillars speared the sky, carving the battlefield into a cathedral of fire.
Yet Lucien did not falter. His blade sang. Kairo roared. Ashveil grinned through blood.
Three against one.
And Veythar smiled wider, as though this was exactly the performance he had scripted.