Orion's hand shot out, snatching the Witch's shadow bolt from mid-air. The divine power infused within it didn't even have time to detonate before the Curse Avatar's flesh simply… consumed it.

"Delicious," Orion murmured, licking his lips. The simple, predatory gesture sent a visceral chill through the Witch.

"It's you… the giant, Orion!" she stammered, her composure shattering. "But that's 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 she'd had in her grasp was being ripped away, and she couldn't 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 wouldn't 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, Orion's arrival had thrown her into a new battle, one she knew she couldn't escape.

"Surrender, Witch," Orion's voice was a low growl. "I might just let you live."

And with that single sentence, the Witch's 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 Witch's avatar, Orion's form flickered, shifting from the terrifying visage of the commander back to the rune-covered giant she had first seen. She couldn't 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 couldn't 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. "It's 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 Orion's mirrored avatar, merging seamlessly with his form.

"Deputy Commander," Orion announced, his voice crisp. "The Witch has been handled."

"Good," was the Deputy Commander's only reply, but a rare smile touched the old soldier's face.

Orion's victory had been a calculated gambit. By activating his newly acquired skill, Psionic Morph, he had momentarily taken on the commander's appearance. The psychic shock had been enough to completely shatter the Witch's 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 commander's 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 Moonwell's embrace.

Edward glanced at the emotional reunion, then shot Orion a look that said, She's 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 isn't going to rebuild itself. This probably isn't the best time for waterworks."

He felt a pang of awkwardness, standing alone before his new fiancée and his new mother-in-law. But he masked it with a veneer of command. The Deputy Commander's parting look had been an order: Orion was to bind Staghelm City to their war machine, and that meant making this alliance official—and consummated—as soon as possible.

"Huh?" Isilra looked up from her mother's arms, truly studying this strange man for the first time. Her luck was certainly bizarre; every time she'd 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 didn't faze her. She was, if anything, adaptable.

"Orion… please forgive our display," the Demigod of the Moonwell said, her composure returning.

"We're family now. There's 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 Moonwell's 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 mother's shoulder.

***

The North, The Black Tower.

The first thing the Deputy Commander did upon his return was place the War Golem's 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 Commander's eyes, and he silently dismissed the powerful spell he'd 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, Alexander's reply was faint, weary. But I'm going to be out for a long, long time.

He didn't just have to restore his demigod phantom; he had to rebuild the entire War Golem. The Deputy Commander understood.

"That's fine," he sent back. "Time is the one thing we're not short on." As demigods, their lives were measured in epochs.

A final, troubling thought came from the skull. There's 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 Commander's faint smile vanished. He stared at the skull, his face once again a mask of grim silence.

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