The One Thing He Shouldn’t Have Done
They were not warriors.
They were keepers.
And where they stood, he would break.
Luruzt did what no beast-god should ever do.
He showed fear.
Not caution.
Not strategy.
Fear.
It came in the form of a twitch—barely noticeable.
A half-step backward.
A ripple in his monstrous body as he saw the alignment of Zafana, Koko Miray, and the three women who had once turned the tide of forgotten wars.
The ancient knowledge in him screamed:
"Not these."
But it was too late.
The gate behind them burned with silent wrath.
The spirits of Zantrayel stirred.
Zafana did not move.
Koko Miray did not speak.
Ayira only looked forward and raised her hand—
And the sky cracked.
A single blow, coordinated from five sides, each woman in sync though they'd never trained together.
Luruzt reeled.
Another blow.
A third.
By the time the fourth strike came, he was begging in silence.
His monstrous voice broken, crushed in his throat.
Not one of them paused.
He fell, not in dramatic flame, but like a carcass crumpling beneath the weight of what it feared most: being truly seen.
Across Zantrayel and beyond, those who had followed him, who whispered to hunger in the dark, felt the tether sever.
They cried out.
Some fled.
Some froze.
The city guards rounded them up.
But the worst of them—the ones who had once lived within Nouvo Lakay and abandoned their people in the Time of the Hive, sneaking out in the night, pledging faith to anything to save their skin—they were dragged, bound and shaking, through the gate.
And the gate, silent since the war began, responded.
Their sigils flared—not in light, but in fire.
Burning.
Marking them.
Branded by betrayal.
Ayira stood before them.
There was no ceremony.
No proclamation.
Just justice.
One by one, she raised her hand, and one by one, she executed them on the spot, in front of the people, in front of the guards, in front of the gate.
She did not wait for approval.
She did not ask permission.
To her, they had already judged themselves.
And then, Zafana stood up.
She approached Ayira, said nothing, and raised a single finger.
The guards took Ayira gently but firmly. There was no fight.
"You know the law," Zafana said quietly.
"I do," Ayira replied.
"You acted as judge, but you are not," Zafana said.
"I am ready," Ayira whispered.
And with that, Zafana arrested her.
Ayira was taken to the Hall of Judgment, not as a warrior, not as Jalen's wife, not as a hero—
But as a citizen of Zantrayel.
Her fate now rested in the hands of Zion, who had not yet returned.
And the people… watched.
Some nodded.
Some wept.
But none argued.
Because this was how justice endured—even in a world built on war and miracle.