The Free Bound moved at night.
Not as rebels.
As accountants of resentment.
They did not raise banners or attack guards. They targeted ledgers—supply routes, ration schedules, communication relays. Small disruptions, carefully placed, designed to prove a point:
The system depends on us.
By dawn, three distribution nodes were out of sync.
By noon, whispers spread faster than truth.
Nyxara found the first saboteur kneeling calmly beside a severed conduit, expression smug.
"He won't kill us," the man said softly. "He needs us."
Nyxara's hand twitched.
Azrael arrived before she acted.
He looked at the damage. Then at the man.
"You misunderstand," Azrael said evenly. "I don't need consensus. I need coherence."
The man sneered. "You'll make an example of us."
Azrael nodded. "Yes."
Relief flashed across the saboteur's face.
Examples meant martyrdom.
Azrael did not imprison them.
He reassigned them.
Every identified member of the Free Bound was removed from internal systems and placed at the boundary—on external patrol, disaster containment, and evacuation corridors.
No authority.
No leverage.
No access.
They were still protected.
They were simply irrelevant.
Seraphina watched the orders propagate. "You stripped them of impact."
Azrael nodded. "Power seekers fear erasure more than death."
Nyxara exhaled slowly. "They'll either leave… or learn."
"And either outcome stabilizes the system," Ashara added quietly.
There were no speeches.
No punishments broadcast.
The whispers died within a day—starved of friction.
Lyr-Vale fell on the twenty-third day.
Not to fire.
Not to invasion.
To disassembly.
Without Heaven's maintenance and without Azrael's protection, systems failed in sequence. Markets closed. Arrays went dormant. The council dissolved into factions arguing over dwindling relevance.
Those who evacuated survived.
Those who stayed did not die en masse.
They simply dispersed—becoming refugees, footnotes, lessons.
The world watched.
And understood.
Heaven's "aid" collapsed publicly two days later.
A caravan meant for a rival city arrived spoiled. A Heaven-certified healer failed to activate a ward. A conditional blessing flickered—and went dark.
Panic followed.
Heaven's pragmatists lost ground.
The reformists whispered, We told you so.
Azrael did nothing.
He let contrast do the work.
That evening, the ancient dragon remnant returned—closer this time, its presence folding the air like a held breath.
You punish without spectacle, it observed.
You refuse conquest. You refuse rescue.
Why?
Azrael didn't look up. "Because systems rot when they're fed by fear or pity."
The remnant's eye narrowed.
You will be blamed for every death you don't prevent.
Azrael nodded. "Already am."
And you accept that?
Azrael finally looked at it. "I accept responsibility, not guilt."
The remnant laughed—deep, ancient, approving.
Good. Then you might last.
It withdrew again, leaving behind a sense of being measured—and not found wanting.
Jin Yao approached Azrael later, thoughtful. "You didn't break them. You… minimized them."
Azrael glanced at him. "What would Heaven have done?"
Jin Yao didn't hesitate. "Erased them."
Azrael nodded. "I don't erase disagreement. I erase leverage."
Jin Yao bowed slightly. "I'm beginning to understand your rule."
Azrael corrected him gently. "It's not rule. It's maintenance."
That night, Seraphina stood with him at the boundary once more.
"They'll keep testing you," she said. "From outside. From within."
Azrael watched the camps—steady, quieter now, more deliberate.
"Let them," he replied. "Every test teaches the system who belongs."
She hesitated. "And who decides that?"
Azrael met her eyes.
"Everyone," he said. "Including me."
She nodded—accepting the weight.
Far above, Heaven updated its internal record one last time this cycle:
The Anomaly enforces order without terror.
Suppression vectors ineffective.
Long-term coexistence probability rising.
Another note—unofficial—circulated quietly:
He is not becoming Heaven.
He is becoming unavoidable.