Christine didn't move when the fire popped.
She lay half-awake, eyes closed, breath slow—too slow for someone who had just cracked stone with nothing but intent. The gun rested beside her, silent, patient.
Nyk watched her for a long moment.
Then he stepped closer, knelt, and cupped the side of her head with one hand. His thumb brushed her temple, grounding, familiar. She opened her eyes just as he leaned in and kissed her—soft, unguarded, certain.
"You got this, babe," he murmured against her lips. "No more doubting."
She exhaled, a small smile breaking through. "You say that like it's easy."
He grinned. "Nah. I say it 'cause it's true."
From a few paces away, Azelar turned his back to them and walked toward the clearing, giving them the courtesy of distance without comment. When he stopped, his voice carried calmly across the stones.
"Nyk. You're next."
The Weight of Ruin-
Nyk rolled his shoulders and followed, cigarette tucked behind his ear, grin fading into focus. He stepped into the center of the clearing, boots firm on the earth.
Azelar faced him.
"Your power," Azelar said, "is dangerous even among Primordial vessels."
Nyk shrugged lightly. "Ruin does that."
"No," Azelar corrected. "Conceptual destruction does that."
The air tightened—not pressure, but gravity of meaning.
"You don't destroy bodies," Azelar continued. "You erase ideas. And ideas are what keep reality stitched together."
Nyk tilted his head. "So what—you saying I shouldn't use it?"
"I'm saying," Azelar replied, "that every time you do, the world pays a price. Whether you notice it or not."
He raised a hand.
The ground shifted.
A simple wooden post rose from the earth between them—unremarkable, unfinished.
"Destroy it," Azelar said.
Nyk squinted. "That thing?"
"Yes."
Nyk didn't touch it. He didn't step forward. He simply decided.
The post vanished.
Not shattered. Not burned.
Gone.
The space where it stood felt… wrong. Like a sentence missing a word.
Christine shivered from the edge of the clearing.
Azelar's eyes sharpened. "Do you feel that?"
Nyk's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"What did you erase?"
"The post," Nyk said.
Azelar shook his head once. "Incorrect."
He stepped forward and tapped the empty space.
"You erased the concept of that post ever having existed here," he said. "The soil no longer remembers supporting it. The air doesn't remember touching it."
Nyk swallowed.
"That's the cost," Azelar said quietly. "Reality compensates. It always does."
Nyk laughed once, short and uneasy. "Damn. Guess I've been wildin'."
"You've been careless," Azelar replied. "Not malicious. There's a difference."
He circled Nyk slowly.
"Tell me," Azelar said, "what happens if you erase the concept of a man's weapon?"
Nyk's brow furrowed. "He's unarmed."
"And if you erase the concept of his threat?"
Nyk's eyes widened slightly. "He… never becomes my enemy."
Azelar stopped in front of him.
"And if you erase the concept of conflict itself?"
Silence.
Nyk looked away, staring at the mountains beyond the clearing.
"…World goes soft," he muttered. "Stagnant. No growth."
"Correct," Azelar said. "Ruin without restraint becomes fear dressed as mercy."
He stepped back.
"First rule," Azelar said evenly.
"Power without restraint is just another form of fear."
The words settled into Nyk's bones.
Training shifted.
No more destruction.
Azelar summoned constructs—moving forms, shifting scenarios. Attacks that could be erased.
Nyk wasn't allowed to.
Instead, Azelar forced him to evade. Redirect. Endure.
Nyk took hits—hard ones. Sent skidding across stone. Forced to regenerate, over and over.
"Why can't I just end it?" Nyk snapped after the fifth knockdown.
Azelar didn't slow.
"Because if your first answer is annihilation," he said, "you'll never learn control."
Another blow. This one dropped Nyk to a knee.
"You're strong," Azelar continued. "Strong enough to erase continents if you lose yourself."
Nyk pushed up, teeth bared. "Then teach me not to."
Azelar paused.
For the first time, he smiled—not kindly, but approving.
"That," he said, "is the correct question."
He raised two fingers.
"From now on," Azelar declared, "you may only use conceptual destruction when I say why."
Nyk blinked. "That's messed up."
"Yes," Azelar agreed. "It's discipline."
Nightfall —
Later, bruised and sore, Nyk sat beside Christine near the fire. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "Yeah. Just… realizing I could break everything if I'm not careful."
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to the club."
He chuckled, then grew serious. "I'm gonna learn this. For real."
She looked up at him. "I know."
Across the clearing, Azelar watched them both.
Good, he thought. They're starting to understand.
Far away—beyond distance, beyond light—darkness listened.
And waited.