The two forces moved together, intertwined, no longer separate but unified into something that transcended both.

Origin aura.

The ground directly beneath him simply ceased to exist.

Not destroyed, not scattered—it cleaved apart as if reality itself was being split, creating a perfectly circular crater fifty feet across. The shockwave that followed was visible, a wall of distorted air that expanded outward at devastating speed.

Trees were ripped from the earth and flung away like toys. The ruined Ki'thara buildings were pulverized into dust. The temple itself, that ancient structure that had stood for millennia, cracked down its center with a sound like the world breaking.

Wendelina threw up a barrier around herself and her witches, pouring enormous power into it. The shockwave hit, and even with all her strength reinforcing it, the barrier cracked. Several witches were thrown from their feet. One screamed as the pressure overwhelmed her defenses, and she was hurled backward into the forest.

Pride's response was more direct. Darkness solidified around him and his forces, creating a dome of absolute shadow that the shockwave couldn't penetrate. But even he staggered slightly from the impact.

Lilinathara had simply vanished, stepping sideways into whatever space she inhabited, untouched by the destruction.

When the initial wave passed, when the dust and debris began to settle, everyone still conscious turned to look at what Jaenor had become.

He floated in the center of a zone of absolute devastation, his form transformed. The smoke-like energy was leaking from him, like smoke from a volcano.

The combined energy—no longer distinctly aura or origin but something unified and terrifying—flowed around him like liquid fire. It coiled and writhed, forming patterns that hurt to perceive, shapes that existed in more dimensions than the human mind was equipped to process.

And behind him, emerging from his back like the unfurling of reality itself, came wings.

Three pairs.

Six wings total.

Each one is massive, easily twenty feet from base to tip. They weren't made of feathers or membrane or any physical substance. They were constructed from pure energy, from the unified force that now suffused Jaenor's being. One pair blazed golden like captured sunlight. Another shimmered with prismatic light that cycled through every color. The third was darkness itself, not black but the actual absence of light, as if they'd been cut from the fabric of night.

The wings moved slowly and majestically, and with each movement, reality rippled. Space folded oddly around them.

Time seemed to stutter and skip.

Jaenor's gaze swept across the assembled forces, and where it landed, people flinched. Those golden-red eyes held no recognition, no humanity. Only power and instinct and something older than consciousness itself.

Then those terrible eyes fixed on Wendelina.

She felt the full weight of his attention, and for the first time in two hundred years, the Mother Supreme knew genuine terror.

"Run," she whispered to her witches.

"Run now."

But before anyone could move, Jaenor spoke. His voice was layered, as if multiple versions of himself were speaking simultaneously from different points in time.

"You... hurt... me."

Each word carried physical force.

The air pressure increased with each syllable.

The ground trembled.

"You... tried... to... kill... me."

Wendelina straightened, forcing steel into her spine despite the fear clawing at her insides. She was the Mother Supreme. She would not show weakness and would not flee from any threat, no matter how overwhelming.

"I did what was necessary," she called back, her voice steady despite everything. "Your bloodline is cursed. You are a threat to—"

"SILENCE."

The command was absolute.

It wasn't shouted—if anything, Jaenor's multi-layered voice had grown quieter.

But it carried such weight, such authority, that Wendelina's words died in her throat. She physically couldn't speak, couldn't form sounds, as if the very concept of her voice had been temporarily erased.

Jaenor descended slowly, his six wings moving in synchronized patterns. His feet touched the ground at the edge of the crater he'd created, and the earth beneath him immediately began to crack, unable to bear the pressure of his presence.

"You fear what you don't understand," he said, and now there was something in his voice beyond the layered effect.

Pain. Anger. Betrayal.

"You condemn based on the actions of the dead. You execute the innocent for the crimes of their ancestors."

"You're not innocent," Pride interjected, his cultured voice cutting through the tension.

"Young Arkwright, you've just destroyed half a square mile of forest and nearly killed everyone present. That's not the action of someone in control."

Jaenor's gaze shifted to him, and even Pride took an involuntary step backward.

"And who the fuckk are you?!"

Morgana wanted to move to him. "Jaenor…"

"This power... it's too much. Too vast. Like trying to hold an ocean in my hands."

His six wings flared wider, and lightning arced between them—not electrical lightning, but cracks in reality itself.

"But I can choose where it goes. How it's released. And right now, every instinct I have is screaming at me to erase the threat that tried to kill me."

He took a step toward Wendelina.

The ground beneath his foot vaporized.

The Mother Supreme's hands came up, her own considerable power gathering.

"If you attack me, boy, I will respond with everything I have. And my sisters will join me. We will bring down the full might of the Covens on you."

"You already tried that," Jaenor said softly.

"It didn't work."

Another step.

The pressure was building again, reality straining under the weight of his power.

Morgana pushed through the crowd of witches, ignoring their protests, and placed herself between Jaenor and Wendelina. It was a futile gesture—if Jaenor attacked, she'd be vaporized instantly—but she did it anyway.

"Jaenor," she said firmly, meeting those terrible golden-red eyes without flinching.

"Look at me.

Really look at me. Do you recognize me?"

For a moment, there was no response.

Then something flickered in those eyes.

Confusion.

Recognition, struggling against the overwhelming power.

"Morgana," he said, and this time his voice was singular, human.

"I... what's happening to me?"

"You're transforming," she said gently.

"Your powers are merging, evolving into something new.

But you're still you.

Still Jaenor. You can control this. You can choose who you want to be."

"I don't know if I can," he admitted, and now the fear was evident.

Fear not of others, but of himself.

"But you won't," Morgana said with certainty.

"Because you're better than your ancestors. Better than the curse that runs in your blood. You're Jaenor Arkwright, and you choose your own path."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Everyone watched, hardly daring to breathe, as Jaenor struggled with himself. His wings flickered, sometimes solid, sometimes translucent, reflecting the internal battle being waged.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jaenor closed his eyes. The pressure began to diminish. The energy flowing around him started to recede, being pulled back into his body with visible effort.

The wings folded inward, collapsing back into his form. The golden-red glow of his eyes faded to normal grey, though hints of color still swirled in their depths. His feet touched the ground fully, and he didn't vaporize it.

But the power was still there.

Everyone could feel it coiled inside him like a sleeping dragon.

Contained, controlled, but never truly gone.

Jaenor opened his eyes and looked at Wendelina with an expression that was entirely human—tired, hurt, but resolved.

"I'm not your enemy," he said quietly.

"Unless you make me one."

Wendelina stared at him for a long moment.

This time, when Morgana caught him, his body was merely hot, not burning. His breathing was steady. He'd simply pushed himself past every limit and paid the price.

But he was alive.

And more importantly, he was still himself.

Jaenor's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.

The moment his consciousness fled, the oppressive weight in the air lessened but didn't vanish entirely. It lingered like the afterimage of staring at the sun—a reminder of what had just emerged and might emerge again.

Morgana caught him as he fell, struggling under his weight.

Rena rushed forward to help, and together they lowered him to the scorched ground. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his face was pale, slick with sweat despite the cold.

"He's breathing," Morgana said, relief flooding her voice.

"He's stable."

Pride observed the unconscious boy with what might have been disappointment behind his obsidian mask.

Those eyes dimmed slightly.

"Too bad," he murmured, his cultured voice carrying easily across the devastated clearing.

"He controlled it."

Jaenor didn't want to lose control of himself, and not when all those covens are present. He knew it was risky, but he still suppressed himself.

It was not that he didn't want to kill them; it's just that he wanted to in his sane mind when he did that.

The lord of the sin of pride turned slowly, surveying the assembled forces—witches on one side, Blaedred soldiers on the other, all watching him with varying degrees of hostility and fear.

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