But the power radiating from him was unmistakable. Reality itself seemed to bend around him, space compressing and expanding with each step.
The air grew heavier, pressure building like an approaching storm.
Draelusa stopped perhaps fifty feet away, well within conversational distance but far enough to avoid immediate melee range. His eyes, those ancient, knowing eyes, fixed on Jaenor with an expression that mixed amusement and satisfaction.
"Jaenor Arkwright," he said, his cultured voice carrying easily across the burned ground.
"How delightful that you accepted my invitation."
Drealusa was sure that Jaenor would come knocking down if he knew that Frostvale was under attack, and so he led an army by himself.
"Invitation?" Jaenor’s merged power was already gathering beneath his skin, gold and crimson light beginning to flicker.
"You’re invading toward Frostvale. That’s not an invitation; it’s an attack."
"Is it?" Draelusa smiled.
"Or is it an opportunity? A chance for us to meet properly, away from the chaos, away from interfering parties like Magdalyna or the Mother Supreme."
He gestured to the demon legion behind him.
"All of this—the march, the invasion, the threat to your precious village—it’s theater. A stage I’ve set specifically to draw you out. To create conditions where we could have an... honest conversation."
Jaenor’s hands clenched into fists.
"If you want conversation, you chose a strange way to start it."
"Did I?" Draelusa’s smile widened.
"You wouldn’t have come otherwise. If I’d sent a polite letter requesting a meeting, you’d have ignored it or set a trap. But threaten something you care about? That brings you running every time."
He took a step closer.
"Your mother lives in Frostvale, doesn’t she? Rosaine. And the families of your friends."
Jaenor felt rage building, not the wild, uncontrolled fury from Ki’thara village, but something colder and more focused.
"Should we talk about your birth mother?"
"Don’t," he said quietly.
"Don’t speak about her."
"Why not? She’s relevant to our discussion."
Draelusa’s tone remained conversational, as if discussing weather rather than devastating personal history.
"Your mother understood what you were. What you’d become. She feared it, certainly; the Arkwright curse had destroyed so many before you. But she also hoped. Hoped you’d be different. That you’d control the power rather than being consumed by it."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"She’d be proud of what you’ve achieved. The merger of your cores, the manifestation of origin aura, and the bond with a divine beast. You’ve surpassed every Arkwright who came before. Become something unprecedented."
"Get to the point," Jaenor said through gritted teeth.
"Why are you really here?"
Draelusa’s expression grew more serious.
"Because you’re wasting your potential. Fighting for mortals who fear you, protecting a realm that will never truly accept what you are. The Covens wanted you dead. The Empire sees you as a useful tool. Even your precious villagers in Frostvale probably whisper about you when they think you can’t hear, the cursed child, the dangerous one, better kept at distance."
"That’s not true," Rena interjected, anger sharp in her voice.
"Isn’t it?" Draelusa’s gaze shifted to her briefly.
"Oh, some individuals care genuinely. You, certainly. His aunt. A handful of others. But the village as a whole? The realm at large? They tolerate him because his power is useful. The moment he stops being useful or becomes inconvenient—"
"Enough," Jaenor interrupted. His power was fully manifested now, golden-red energy flowing around him in visible waves.
"You didn’t bring an army here to philosophize. What do you actually want?"
Draelusa’s smile returned, predatory and satisfied.
"I want you to stop resisting inevitability. You’re going to become our vessel eventually. The daemon god will be resurrected, and you’re the perfect container for his essence. Fighting that destiny only delays the inevitable and causes unnecessary suffering."
"I’m not becoming anyone’s vessel," Jaenor said flatly.
"Even if refusing means watching Frostvale burn?"
Draelusa gestured toward the village in the distance.
"Because that’s the choice I’m offering. Surrender yourself willingly, come with me now, and I’ll turn the legion away. Those villagers live. Continue resisting, and I give the order to advance. My forces will reach Frostvale in less than an hour, and by nightfall, there won’t be a building left standing or a person left breathing."
The threat hung in the air, absolute and terrible.
Behind Jaenor, his companions tensed. Morgana’s hands moved. Taeryn and Darian readied their weapons. Even Ba’narussa’s seven heads lowered slightly, preparing for violence.
But Jaenor just stared at Draelusa, and slowly, impossibly, he began to laugh.
It started quiet, then grew louder, not hysterical, but genuinely amused.
The sound was incongruous given the circumstances, and it clearly wasn’t the reaction Draelusa had expected.
All of them looked at him, clearly puzzled.
"You think," Jaenor said, his laughter fading into a smile that held no warmth, "that threatening people will make me surrender? That fear will convince me to give up everything I am?"
His merged power flared brighter, and now additional colors began mixing with the gold and crimson, deep purple, silver, and shades that had no names in normal languages.
"You fundamentally misunderstand what I’ve become. I’m not the frightened boy you saw in the village anymore. I’ve stabilized my power, integrated my cores completely, and touched something beyond what either aura or origin energy alone could reach."
Six wings began to unfurl from his back, manifestations of pure unified energy, existing in more dimensions than three. They spread wide, each one massive, radiating power that made the air itself shimmer.
"So here’s my counteroffer," Jaenor continued, his voice taking on the layered quality that suggested multiple realities converging.
"You turn your legion around. You leave Frostvale and every other settlement in this region alone. You fuck off back to whatever hole you crawled out of and never threaten people I care about again."
He took a step forward, and the ground beneath his foot cracked from sheer pressure.
"Or I kill you right here and scatter your legion like chaff in the wind."