Garviel, Lord Commander of the Eastmarch Greycloaks, let his will carry him forward.

  As the smoke and corruption from the Archon’s fiendish surprise attack began to clear, he rushed forward, sword-tip raised and leveled at the ancient foe of all mankind. [Timestop] covered the world in a slew of treacle, stopping all movement of limb and mind for its duration. It gave him sixty seconds, and he wasn’t sure that would be enough…

  But it has to be, he told himself as he sprinted towards the Archon’s perplexed face, not backing down from the sheer power emanating from those four burning violet eyes. For my fallen Brothers and Sisters in the West, for Lord Remiel, and for the future, I – I will -!

  He didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he hurled a roar just as potent as the Archon’s own back up at him, sliding right through Tangeon’s bloodied legs and ignoring Manus Raava’s inert body by his side.

  Tangeon and Manus had wore him down. The Archon had used up most of the Skills they’d heard about – including the energized Lightborn’s. Now, he was as open as he could possibly be. That fact – and that fact alone – was what had stalled Garviel’s hand up till this point. He was a patient man. He’d learned to be.

  And now the time for patience was over.

  I – will!

  His blade sang with power – its edge glistening with scintillating, potent magic known only to his order. Enchanted Onixia blessed by the High Cardinal himself was hard to come by. And in the hands of a Greycloak Commander like him, the weapon wasn’t just a powerful blade – it was a cosmos changing event.

  He took a single leap towards his foe’s chest as the twentieth second ticked by, savoring the sight of the Archon’s surprise.

  Then he felt it – a blade slicing through the crisp air of dawn.

  But not his.

  He paused, suspended in midair, feeling something wet and sticky running down his shoulder. A single blink to his right then showed him a vision that simply wasn’t possible.

  A single, tiny blade of shimmering blue light had lodged itself in his shoulder, severing muscle and cutting into bone even through his armored pauldron.

  He didn’t even scream. The shock of the sight – and what it meant – was too great. All he could do was dangle there, locked in place by the spirit blade, and let his Appraisal tell him just how fucked he was:

  Blade of the Sword Saint (Grade S)

  A blade affected by this Skill now never misses its mark, regardless of any [physical] or [magical] effects the User is currently under.

  Garviel dared to blink – to close shut his eyes to this reality. The fact that the Archon had deliberately saved that skill – their skill – right up till this moment was…

  Pretty novel for you, isn’t it? Feeling afraid.

  The voice that pierced Garviel’s skull in this moment of pure defeat made him wrench his head right back to the enemy.

  That Timestop is a very useful skill, the Archon whispered in his mind. One which my Appraisal told me you were keeping in the backburner. You’ve probably always done that – kept that Skill safe right up until the moment your enemies think they’ve beaten you. You’ve probably enjoyed every second you stood over them in victory, while they bled out in surprise.

  …now he remembered. He remembered how one of the Archon’s Onixian daggers had lodged itself into the far wall of the cathedral as the battle began. He’d operated under the assumption that his enemies might pull out a show-stopping trick, and kept the dagger there for the right moment.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Anger suddenly took hold. Garviel thrashed around in the air, flopping like a fish on a line, trying desperately to flail his sword against the Archon. He was mere inches from the bastard creature’s chest.

  But the effort was wasted. The dagger embedded in his shoulder joint sunk deeper, twisted, and drew a gasp of agony from his throat.

  “Y-you will never – triumph – over humankind!”

  He scratched these words out with the energy he had left, hoping that one day someone may live to etch these words on a memorial to the fallen – to those who never gave up in the face of this demon’s reign of terror. But the Archon’s response surprised him.

  No, he said. I will triumph over you. And then, the world will forget about you and all your little plans. Your Cardinal. Your order. Your hopes for a future where you sit at the top – all of it dies here, tonight.

  The 50th second ticked by. Garviel could see the sweat beginning to bead on the faces of Tangeon and Manus again.

  Whether you know it or not, the Archon said. You have all paved the way for the future tonight, Elders of Argwyll. Now, leave the rest to me.

  The Timestop ended. The world resumed its course – Tangeon and Manus leaping with wild abandon to crush the Archon where he stood. Garviel, however, looked into the quadruple eyes of the dark angel and saw nothing but confidence.

  Then, he looked into the crimson eye of the demon hat itself and saw something shine within its pupil.

  “No –“ he wanted to say – but the word was stopped in his throat. In the second before the Archon was about to be grappled, he licked his lips and uttered one single word that brought the universe to a standstill:

  “Timestop.”

  …

  Ethan looked down at the three frozen warriors who had attempted to oppose him.

  What surprised him most was the fervor of the giant – the King of the Gobrins whom he’d tried to strike up negotiations with for weeks on end, and had received nothing but dead messengers by way of response.

  Fear had ruled the Giant King's mind. Even a beast as powerful as him couldn't accept the new order. His own people would never accept any notion that they were on equal footing with others. Cormyr had told him that. But still - he hadn't wished to believe it.

  The barbarian – this Manus Raava - his motives could be understood. Each tattoo on the tribal human’s body spoke of a love of nature – of the world as it once was. But he wouldn’t abide the change that was coming, and that was why he’d thrown his lot in with humans he barely had anything in common with.

  And then there was the Greycloak commander suspended right in front of his nose, with abject terror painted across his features. Not as crazy as Carliah Argent had been, and not quite as nihilistic as Artorious. He wondered what his trials would have been like if he’d been summoned to this region of the world rather than Westerweald.

  The three of them – and their eviscerated Cardinal that lay behind – were the last vestiges of the old order. When the smoke of this day cleared in the dawn, the final nail in Eastmarch’s coffin would be hammered with barely any bloodshed at all. No armies lost. Merely three misguided fools and the priest who manipulated them into doing his God’s dirty work.

  You’re thinking too much again.

  Ethan almost didn’t recognize Sys’s voice. He’d insisted that Sys remain silent while he was in disguise this past week, meandering through farmlands and watching the comings and goings of the humans of this city.

  It was true – he’d grown pensive as he watched them. What struck him the most was how normal things felt. Even with the perceived threat of total obliteration hanging over them, the humans of Camoran still got on with their daily lives, walking the Paths Kaedmon had set out before them.

  I’m thinking maybe there’s some truth to what Langley said. Maybe certainty is something people find worth dying for.

  Losers, mainly, Sys scoffed. Not like I have to tell you this, but there’s sheep and then there’s wolves, Ethan. That’s all this world’s ever been. And it’s the only language creatures like these will ever understand till you set up something new.

  Ethan looked into the terrified faces of the trio, squaring his shoulders as he got his final attacks ready.

  Aren’t I a wolf, just like them?

  Sure. But you’re a wolf leading the sheep. That’s the difference.

  I’m starting to wonder if there’s much of a difference between those things at all. Because, in the end, we’re all just filthy animals.

  You’re literally a talking ha-

  Don’t say it.

  Fine! No more jokes. No more jibes. But need I remind you that while you’re doing all this pontificating, you’ve got maybe – oh, I dunno – twenty five seconds of [Timestop] left? Not much time for a theatrical end, is it?

  Ethan leaned back, cracked his four knuckles and tucked his wings behind his back.

  Alright, then. No more theatrics, he said. We’ve given the people of this city a show. Now, it’s time to end this for good.

  He cleared the cathedral in a single leap, flying past the collapsed roof and coming to float just above the cracked stained-glass window of Krea that still stood against the rain.

  And there, before his captive audience, he summoned an attack the likes of which Argwyll had never seen.