The army moved like a living thing—segmented, synchronized, relentless. From his position near the vanguard, Liam could see the columns stretching back for miles, a dark serpent of steel and determination cutting through the Radiant countryside.

Day one of eight.

The math hadn't changed. Only the urgency.

"Fourth Order reports from the eastern flank," Lieutenant Zara said, riding up beside him on a massive warhound that looked like it had been bred in a nightmare. She held a dispatch scroll, her expression unreadable. "Three enemy scout teams neutralized. No survivors. They were positioned to track our movements and signal ahead."

"Good." Liam kept his eyes forward, watching the road ahead disappear into rolling hills. "How long before the next checkpoint?"

"Four hours at current pace. There's a river crossing—the Silvervein Ford. Kael'thra's advance team is already securing it, but the scouts report increased enemy activity in that sector."

"Increased how much?"

Zara's jaw tightened. "Enough that she's requesting reinforcements. Two hundred soldiers, minimum, or she estimates twenty percent casualties for her team."

Twenty percent of the Fourth Order. Nearly fifty zealots who would die for the privilege of dying for him.

Liam sould have hesitated. Sould have agonized over the moral calculus of spending lives like currency.

The more synthesized thing he'd become just nodded.

"Send Commander Torven's second battalion. Tell them to move fast and support Kael'thra's operation. I want that ford secured within three hours, and I want the enemy response crushed hard enough that they think twice about contesting our advance again."

"That will tire Torven's troops before—"

"I know what it will do, Lieutenant." Liam's voice was flat. "Give the order."

Zara's expression flickered with something that might have been concern or calculation, but she wheeled her warhound around without further argument. Within moments, runners were spreading through the column, redirecting forces with the practiced efficiency of an army that had learned to move like Liam's will made manifest.

[Synchronization Index: 41% → 43%]

The System notification was almost gentle. Just a quiet acknowledgment that another piece of Liam Cross had integrated into Lord Azra. Another decision that prioritized necessity over humanity.

He barely felt it anymore.

"We're going to burn them out," Lilith said.

She'd been riding in silence beside him for the past hour, managing dispatches from the rear legions and coordinating with House representatives through a series of sending stones. Now she turned those golden eyes on him with an expression that was carefully neutral.

"We're going to get us to Sanctum Lux," Liam corrected.

"At what cost?"

"Whatever it takes."

The words came out automatic, rehearsed. How many times had he said some variation of that phrase in the past twenty-two days? How many times had he justified the brutal calculus of war with the simple assertion that extinction was worse than any price they could pay?

"Azra—"

"Don't." He cut her off quietly. "We've had this conversation. You know the stakes. You know what happens if we fail."

"I also know what happens if we succeed with an army too exhausted to hold what we take," Lilith said, her voice dropping low enough that only he could hear. "We're not just marching to Sanctum Lux. We have to breach it. Fight through it. Destroy the Cathedral while defending against counterattacks from every direction. If your troops are dead on their feet before we even reach the walls—"

"Then I'll carry them the rest of the way on faith and terror," Liam said flatly. "That's what I do. That's what I am."

Lilith was quiet for a long moment. The only sounds were hoofbeats, marching boots, and the creak of armor and weapons being carried toward a destiny that might already be decided.

"When did you become so certain?" she asked finally.

"Certain of what?"

"That you're expendable. That everything is expendable." She gestured back toward the army. "That all have become acceptable losses on the way to a goal that might be impossible anyway."

Liam considered the question with the same cold analytical distance he applied to everything now. When had the shift happened? When had he stopped seeing soldiers as people and started seeing them as resources to be deployed?

After taking Valengard? Before?

"I'm not sure," he said. "But it feels right being certain in my decisions, no matter how bloody they are"

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"It bothers the memory of who I used to be," Liam admitted. "But we that person is dead. What bothers me now is the possibility of failure. Of watching this empire burn because I hesitated at a critical moment. Of proving that every person who put their faith in me was wrong."

"So you'd rather prove them right by leading them to their deaths?"

The question was sharp enough to draw blood, and for a moment Liam felt something flicker in his chest—anger, maybe, or the ghost of defensive pride.

"I'd rather lead them to victory," he said. "But if death is the price of preventing extinction, then yes. I'll pay it. I'll make them pay it. Because the alternative is worse."

Lilith's expression was unreadable. "You sound like a tyrant...you sound like me. I guess that good."

"Maybe." Liam's smile was thin and humorless. "Or maybe I sound like every leader who actually understood what they were fighting for, same way you did. The difference between a tyrant and a savior is just a matter of perspective and outcome."

"And if the outcome is disaster?"

"Then I'll be remembered as a tyrant," Liam said simply. "I can live with that. What I can't live with is standing by while prophecy murders everyone who ever believed in me."

---

The Silvervein Ford came into view three hours later, and with it, the first real test of the day's march.

Liam surveyed the scene from a ridge overlooking the river. The ford itself was maybe sixty feet wide, shallow enough to cross but deep enough to slow a marching army.

On the far side, Radiant forces had established a defensive position—hastily constructed earthworks, sharpened stakes, and what looked like two companies of infantry supported by battle-priests whose armor gleamed with holy consecration.

Between the ridge and the ford, Kael'thra's Fourth Order was already engaged.

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