Orionâs hand shot out, snatching the Witchâs shadow bolt from mid-air. The divine power infused within it didnât even have time to detonate before the Curse Avatarâs flesh simply... consumed it.
"Delicious," Orion murmured, licking his lips. The simple, predatory gesture sent a visceral chill through the Witch.
"Itâs you... the giant, Orion!" she stammered, her composure shattering. "But thatâs impossible. You... you were just an Archlord! How did you ascend so fast?"
Her mind reeled, trying to process the reality-breaking sight before her.
Wait... is this his true form? Has he been a demigod this whole time? Was everything I saw before just an avatar?
The victory sheâd had in her grasp was being ripped away, and she couldnât comprehend how.
She was filled with a furious, burning resentment.
Why is this happening?
According to her plan, even if Clown and the others lost the war outside, it wouldnât have mattered. She would kill or possess Isilra, and then, at the last possible second before The Dais of Judgment collapsed, she would simply teleport to safety.
Now, Orionâs arrival had thrown her into a new battle, one she knew she couldnât escape.
"Surrender, Witch," Orionâs voice was a low growl. "I might just let you live."
And with that single sentence, the Witchâs body went rigid. A violent tremor ran through her, a quake that shook her very soul.
Then, she died.
In the final, fleeting moment of her existence, the last image burned into her mind was the face of the commander, Thresh. The sight of him had paralyzed her, stripping her of even the will to resist.
As her body fell, Orion reached out, and the Curse Avatar melted her form, absorbing it completely. The bloodline of a Fallen Angel was prime fuel for a creature of curses.
"You... you..." Isilra stammered, watching in stunned silence.
After consuming the Witchâs avatar, Orionâs form flickered, shifting from the terrifying visage of the commander back to the rune-covered giant she had first seen. She couldnât make sense of it, her mind reeling from the whiplash.
"Relax, babe. Just a little psionic illusion for the kill," Orion said, his mood impossibly bright. He had won, and he couldnât resist teasing her. "No need to freak out."
"What... what does babe mean?" Isilra asked, somehow managing to pull herself together and focus on the one thing she could question.
Orion chuckled. "Itâs just another word for wife, honey, sweetheart, my better half, the proprietor of my heart... you get the idea."
As he laughed, the sterile white walls of The Dais of Judgment began to dissolve around them, the world returning them to the Staghelm City.
On the city ramparts, the Curse Avatar and Isilra reappeared. Before the stunned onlookers could react, the runic giant flowed like liquid shadow back into Orionâs mirrored avatar, merging seamlessly with his form.
"Deputy Commander," Orion announced, his voice crisp. "The Witch has been handled."
"Good," was the Deputy Commanderâs only reply, but a rare smile touched the old soldierâs face.
Orionâs victory had been a calculated gambit. By activating his newly acquired skill,
Psionic Morph
, he had momentarily taken on the commanderâs appearance. The psychic shock had been enough to completely shatter the Witchâs will to fight, giving him the opening he needed. In her mind, she had been killed by the commander himself. Or perhaps, she died believing Orion was nothing more than the commanderâs avatar.
Either way, if she ever resurrected, the Witch would live in fear of him.
"Isilra!"
"Mom!"
Reunited after being torn apart, Isilra collapsed into the Demigod of the Moonwellâs embrace.
Edward glanced at the emotional reunion, then shot Orion a look that said,
Sheâs your problem now.
With a faint shimmer of spatial energy, he teleported back to the Black Tower.
Orion let the moment linger before clearing his throat, his soft cough breaking the spell between mother and daughter.
"Alright, babe," he said, gently but firmly. "Staghelm City isnât going to rebuild itself. This probably isnât the best time for waterworks."
He felt a pang of awkwardness, standing alone before his new fiancĂ©e and his new mother-in-law. But he masked it with a veneer of command. The Deputy Commanderâs parting look had been an order: Orion was to bind Staghelm City to their war machine, and that meant making this alliance officialâand consummatedâas soon as possible.
"Huh?" Isilra looked up from her motherâs arms, truly studying this strange man for the first time. Her luck was certainly bizarre; every time sheâd met him, it had been one of his avatars. But after seeing the Deathly Soul-Reaper and the Curse Monster, his true giant-like form didnât faze her. She was, if anything, adaptable.
"Orion... please forgive our display," the Demigod of the Moonwell said, her composure returning.
"Weâre family now. Thereâs nothing to forgive."
The word hung in the air, instantly creating a thick, awkward silence on the rampart.
Orion just shrugged, adopting an air of nonchalance.
Might as well rip the Band-Aid off,
he thought. He had to call her that sooner or later; getting it out of the way now would only accelerate things. It was a calculated risk to build rapport.
After a moment of stunned silence, the Demigod of the Moonwellâs expression softened into a warm smile and she nodded.
Isilra, meanwhile, turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for sunsets and buried her face back in her motherâs shoulder.
***
The North, The Black Tower.
The first thing the Deputy Commander did upon his return was place the War Golemâs skull within a high-level containment field. Then, he simply watched, and waited.
Three days passed.
A low, resonant hum, like the ring of a perfectly struck sword, emanated from within the skull. The worry finally left the Deputy Commanderâs eyes, and he silently dismissed the powerful spell heâd had prepared.
Alexander had won.
"Can you fix it?" the Deputy Commander sent the thought directly into the skull, knowing Alexander would be too weak to project his own voice.
I think so,
Alexanderâs reply was faint, weary.
But Iâm going to be out for a long, long time.
He didnât just have to restore his demigod phantom; he had to rebuild the entire War Golem. The Deputy Commander understood.
"Thatâs fine," he sent back. "Time is the one thing weâre not short on." As demigods, their lives were measured in epochs.
A final, troubling thought came from the skull.
Thereâs one problem. This fight... with his talent, Clown might have been pushed over the edge. He might have what he needs to become a true demigod now.
The Deputy Commanderâs faint smile vanished. He stared at the skull, his face once again a mask of grim silence.