The city of Lyr-Vale sent its envoys at noon.
They arrived in polished carriages, banners pristine, robes unmarred by the suffering spreading through the outer regions. Their faces held relief at having reached Azrael's boundary—relief sharpened by expectation.
They were not refugees.
They were negotiators.
Ashara watched them disembark, eyes narrowing. "They came prepared to bargain, not to submit."
Nyxara scoffed softly. "They won't like the answer."
Azrael said nothing.
He waited.
Inside the provisional council hall, the envoys bowed—correctly, but without depth.
"Third Prince," their leader began smoothly, "Lyr-Vale seeks inclusion under your protection. Our city is neutral, prosperous, and strategically located. We offer trade access and information."
Azrael listened patiently.
"And alignment?" he asked.
The envoy smiled. "We value independence."
Seraphina's gaze hardened.
Azrael tilted his head slightly. "You want shelter," he said calmly, "without gravity."
The envoy spread his hands. "We wish to remain autonomous."
Silence stretched.
Azrael leaned forward.
"No," he said.
The word was gentle.
Final.
The envoy stiffened. "Prince Azrael, consider the consequences. Without Heaven's stabilization, our city will suffer. You have the power to prevent that."
Azrael met his eyes.
"I have the power to choose," he replied. "And so do you."
He rose.
"Protection without alignment is extraction," Azrael continued evenly. "It drains responsibility without sharing it. I won't build a system that collapses the moment I stop breathing."
The envoys left furious.
Outside the boundary.
Unprotected.
Seraphina exhaled slowly. "They won't survive the season."
Azrael nodded. "Some won't."
Nyxara glanced at him sharply. "You're letting them fall."
Azrael looked at her. "I'm letting them decide."
That night, the second pressure arrived.
The Ancient Dragon Remnant did not announce itself with destruction.
It appeared as a distortion in the sky—like heat over glass—before condensing into a vast, spectral form coiled above the Eastern Expanse.
One eye opened.
Older than Heaven's current order.
Curious.
You shelter without demanding worship, the voice echoed—not sound, but weight.
Why?
The camps trembled.
Children hid.
Cultivators dropped instinctively.
Azrael stepped forward, dragon marks faintly glowing beneath his skin.
"Because worship rots responsibility," he answered calmly.
The eye narrowed.
Bold. You collect reliance. That makes you prey.
Azrael smiled faintly. "Everything does."
The remnant circled slowly.
If you fail, millions fall with you.
Azrael nodded once. "Yes."
The remnant paused.
Then you are either a fool…
…or something new.
It withdrew—not retreating, but watching.
Nyxara exhaled. "It didn't challenge you."
Azrael turned back toward the camps. "Not yet."
Inside the boundary, strain surfaced.
Resource allocation tightened.
Disputes multiplied.
Some began to whisper that Azrael was too strict.
Too distant.
Jin Yao brought the reports personally. "Faith is stabilizing… but expectation is rising."
Azrael accepted the tablet. "That's the danger."
Jin Yao hesitated. "If you loosen control, they'll rely on you more. If you tighten it—"
"They'll resent me," Azrael finished.
"Yes."
Azrael looked up. "Good."
Jin Yao blinked.
"Resentment is honest," Azrael said. "Dependence without thought is not."
Above, Heaven's pragmatists moved.
They did not send angels.
They sent aid.
Supplies appeared near cities outside Azrael's boundary—selective, conditional, visible.
A message spread quietly:
Heaven still provides.
No alignment required.
Seraphina felt it like a blade at her back. "They're undermining you."
Azrael nodded. "They're testing whether necessity outweighs convenience."
Nyxara's eyes burned. "We should respond."
Azrael shook his head. "Not yet."
He looked at the horizon—toward Lyr-Vale, toward the cities weighing comfort against gravity.
"Let them choose," he said softly. "They always do."
Far away, Lyr-Vale's skies darkened unnaturally.
No storm came.
No disaster struck.
Just the slow failure of systems Heaven no longer fully maintained.
And the city realized—too late—that neutrality was no longer a shield.