Radiant Empire's command tent.

White canvas pulled taut over sanctified poles. Gold thread stitching the seams in geometric perfection.

General Casmir Valente stood at the head of the war table, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the map like it had personally offended him. The borders of the Demon Empire bled across the parchment in charcoal strokes.

Red markers dotted the demon outposts. Three of them had been crossed out in the last ten days.

Krazax. Dra'kul. Vor'esh.

All gone.

"Explain it again," Casmir said quietly.

The scout—a young lieutenant with ash still smudged across his cheek—swallowed hard. "Sir. Krazax fell in a single night. Commander Thorne's entire garrison was dismantled. Witnesses report... they say the attack came from inside the outpost. Like the enemy just appeared in the courtyard."

"Thorne is dead?"

"Yes, sir. Killed in single combat. By—"

"By the so-called Demon Lord Azra." Casmir's jaw tightened. "The Queen's lapdog."

Silence.

One of the other officers - Grand Commander Orin, a hulking man with a scar that split his lip, shook his head slowly.

"That's three outposts in ten days, Casmir. Three. We've been bleeding men at Dra'kul for months and this... thing shows up and flips the entire theater."

"He's not a thing," Casmir said. "He's a man. Our intelligence confirmed it. The Queen's puppet. A mascot to rally the Houses."

"Then why," Orin said slowly, "is he winning?"

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Casmir turned. His eyes swept the tent. Five Grand Commanders. Two generals. And standing near the back, arms crossed, expression guarded —

Hero Matthias Keene.

The Blessed Hero didn't look like much. Lean. Mid-thirties. Brown hair cropped short. But his hands were scarred in ways that didn't come from sparring, and the sword at his hip glowed faintly even at rest, humming with divine favor.

Matthias hadn't said a word since the briefing started.

Casmir gestured to the map. "Thorne was one of our best. Krazax was fortified. The garrison was disciplined. If this demon lord is just a figurehead, then someone else is making the calls. Someone competent."

"Or," Grand Commander Veyra said—a sharp-eyed woman with silver threading her temples—"the intelligence was wrong."

Casmir's expression darkened. "Our intelligence is never wrong."

"Then perhaps," Veyra said carefully, "the situation has changed."

Matthias finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "You're afraid it's him."

Everyone turned.

The Hero pushed off the tent pole he'd been leaning against and walked forward. He didn't look at the map. He looked at Casmir.

"You're afraid," Matthias repeated, "that the man they summoned is actually Azrakul. The real one. The Primordial. And that every step we take toward him is a step into a trap."

Casmir didn't flinch. "It's a valid concern."

"It's paranoia," Orin muttered.

"Is it?" Veyra's eyes narrowed. "Three outposts. Ten days. And every report says the same thing. He doesn't fight like a puppet. He fights like a god."

"Or like someone who's gotten very, very lucky," Orin shot back.

"Luck," Veyra said flatly, "doesn't execute a hundred prisoners and stabilize a failing front in under two weeks."

The temperature in the tent seemed to drop.

Casmir exhaled slowly. "So we have two possibilities. One: the demon lord is exactly what we thought - a human playing dress-up, elevated by circumstance. Two: he's the Primordial Demon, and he's waiting for us to commit."

"If it's the first," Orin said, "we crush him now. Send Matthias and a strike team. Decapitate the command structure before he consolidates."

"And if it's the second?" Veyra's voice was ice. "We send the Hero and our best commanders straight into the Abyss, and Azrakul wipes them all out in one stroke."

Silence again.

Matthias walked to the map. He stared at the three crossed-out markers. Then he tapped Vor'esh with one finger.

"You're overthinking it," he said.

Casmir frowned. "Explain."

"If he's the Primordial, he wouldn't be wasting time on border outposts. He'd have marched on us already. Demons don't do subtlety. They don't do strategy. They do overwhelming force." Matthias straightened. "This isn't a god. It's someone who knows how to fight. And someone who knows how to win."

"That doesn't make him less dangerous," Veyra said.

"No," Matthias agreed. "It makes him predictable."

Orin grunted. "So what do you suggest?"

Matthias looked at Casmir. "Send one Grand Commander. Not me. Not the full strike team. Just one."

The tent went still.

"If he's just a man," Matthias continued, "one Grand Commander should be more than enough. Our commanders are trained to kill High Overseers. This shouldn't be different."

"And if he's not just a man?" Casmir asked.

Matthias's expression didn't change. "Then we lose one commander instead of six. And we know what we're dealing with."

Veyra's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're suggesting we send someone to die."

"I'm suggesting," Matthias said, "we send someone to test him. If he falls, the war shifts. If he doesn't..." He paused. "Then we know the truth. And we plan accordingly."

Orin was already nodding. "I'll go."

Casmir's head snapped toward him. "Orin—"

"I'll go," Orin repeated. He stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow across the map. "I've killed seven High Overseers. I've fought demons for twenty years. If this lord is just a man in a demon's skin, I'll cut him down and bring you his head."

"And if he's not?" Veyra asked quietly.

Orin's scarred mouth twisted into something almost resembling a smile.

"Then at least you'll know before you send the Hero."

Casmir studied him. Then, slowly, he nodded. "The teleportation circle can send you to the border ridge overlooking Vor'esh. But once you're through, the magic won't recharge for weeks. No reinforcements. No retreat."

"I understand."

"You'll be alone."

"I'm aware."

Casmir's jaw worked. Then he looked at Matthias. "And you're certain this is the right move?"

The Hero's eyes were cold. "I don't deal in certainty, General. I deal in faith."

Casmir turned back to Orin. "Then may the Light guide you."

Orin's hand moved to the hilt of his sword. His voice was steady. Absolute.

"I fear no demon god," he said. "There is no god but ours."

---

The command tent emptied slowly. Officers filed out. Matthias lingered near the entrance, watching as the mages prepared the teleportation circle outside.

Casmir approached him.

"You think he'll survive?" the General asked quietly.

Matthias didn't answer immediately. He watched Orin kneel at the center of the glowing sigils, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.

"No," Matthias said finally.

Casmir's expression didn't change. "Then why send him?"

Matthias turned. His eyes were unreadable.

"Because," he said, "I need to know what we're hunting."

The light flared.

And Grand Commander Orin disappeared.

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