The Primordial Void pulsed in quiet rhythm, a cosmos without stars, yet alive with deeper truths. Lucien sat upon the darkened throne at the heart of the Ecliptic Citadel, the fortress now fully embedded within this eternal expanse. The very roots of Ydris Solmare coiled through the foundation of the realm, feeding it infinite strength.
With a thought, Lucien extended his will.
The Void rippled. One by one, his commanders and legions materialized before him, shadows and light kneeling in reverence. The first step echoed loudly — Malthior, his knight and first commander, armor no longer forged of mortal alloys but of crystallized voidfire. His presence alone could shatter worlds, and yet he stood in calm loyalty, sword lowered, head bowed.
Behind him came Thariel, his aura forged like a living storm of gravity and silence, the enforcer whose very breath weighed heavy on reality. Veythar, the dragon he had spared, loomed immense at the rear, his scales reflecting entire galaxies within them, bowing his colossal head with a growl that shook the Citadel's walls. And then came the countless others — marshals, generals, soldiers — each of them transfigured by Lucien's evolution, their forms perfected by the truth of their creator's essence.
For they were not simply his army. They were extensions of him. His breath. His will. His inevitability made flesh.
Lucien's eyes swept across them, and the silence stretched.
"You've changed," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with unshakable truth. "When I touched the World Tree, I evolved. And so did you. Each of you has become your true self, no longer fragments but perfected states of what I created you to be."
The legions lowered their heads deeper, the void trembling with unified reverence.
Malthior stepped forward, kneeling with one knee to the floor, his voice steady and unwavering.
"My lord. First Commander still I remain, but you must know — among us, another has risen. Another whose strength mirrors command, though none dare rival your will."
Lucien's brow arched faintly, amusement threading his lips. "A second in command?"
The silence broke as a ripple in the void's surface. From the shadows stepped Seraphyx's counterpart in the Citadel's hierarchy — a figure long lurking, long underestimated. She emerged with wings unfurled like sheets of midnight flame, her body sleek and dangerous, eyes burning with unrelenting hunger for devotion. She knelt, her tone reverent yet sharp as daggers.
"My Lord," she hissed, "while Seraphyx guides your son upon Aetherion, I have stood as the blade within the Void. I am the second hand to Malthior, the shadow beneath his command. None may strike unless I strike first."
Lucien's abyssal eyes glowed faintly, the depths of countless universes swirling in them. His army shivered beneath that gaze — not from fear, but from the sheer inevitability that radiated from him.
"Then so be it," he said, rising from his throne. The fabric of reality bent with his motion, as though existence itself obeyed. "Malthior stands as the First Commander. You…" his voice cut the silence like steel, "…stand as the Second."
The Citadel thundered with the sound of legions striking fist to chest, a vow of obedience that reverberated endlessly through the Primordial Void.
And as Lucien looked upon them, his creations, his perfected army born of his essence, a faint smile ghosted across his face. They were no longer shadows of his power. They were inevitability given form.
"My army," he said softly, though the sound carried across infinite space, "you will stand at the edge of creation itself. And when the time comes… you will march."
The void stilled. And in that silence, even gods would have trembled.