It was the third dawn of the Crusade and all Irwyn knew was torment.

A hundred worlds he had traveled, a thousand traitors he had reduced to ash. And yet still that rage burned and festered. The grief which cut into his very soul. Into everything he was and ever would be. And it just refused to abate. No matter how many fell before righteous fury, it kept getting worse.

But what else was there to do?

THE ASPECTS WERE DEAD

And nothing could ever change that. Not anymore. Their very Names had been cracked, wounded in such ways that they could never again recover. It hurt all the more because Irwyn had known them, so closely and intimately. Had been with them from his birth. From before Time itself. He just could not comprehend how it was possible. And all of that because of the Betrayer. Because of ______.

How could the Soulgiver, once the most loyal of all, commit such an atrocity against the Flame-that-is-origin? And how could he have possibly succeeded? What hideous, indescribable ambush had his once uncle performed to desecrate everything? Those questions devoured each free thought and every unoccupied moment. Therefore, Irwyn did everything to focus on the rage, for the grief was so, so, so much worse.

“Next resistance = found,” Golem broke him out of his stupor, “Micro-sub-realm, necrocracy, refused terms. Estimated Names: 0-3”

“Send me there,” Irwyn just nodded numbly - not to Golem, but to the Serpent that was undoubtedly listening - and the next moment he was somewhere else. He found himself in the skies, yet not falling, for refusing the imposition of gravity was as simple as breathing for him. He floated above a small kingdom, perfectly stuffed into a small artificial realm. It was not large, maybe the span of horizon to horizon, though that seemed to be enough for a nation to prosper. He could feel the Realm it was latched onto beyond the boundaries and that the artificial sun above was merely an image. For such a pocket space it was strangely stable and allowed only one way in or out. Well, for anyone not directly transported by a Named of Time/Space.

And he could feel the single Name scurrying with a horde of liches to meet him. And there were so many things he would not have given a second glance not so long ago. Undead worked the fields, their souls artificial and mindless. There were few living people, growth regulated by the immortal rulers. So many of those stood before him. Well over a thousand liches, tainted by the Betrayer’s magic to their very core.

“We greet you in these troubled times, great one,” the Named leader bowed to Irwyn who only felt disgust rise within him.

“You have been given an ultimatum,” Irwyn stared down, still floating far overhead. “Accept or be destroyed.”

“Please, great one, we fully condemn the Soulgiver’s treachery and grief for the other Aspects, however, you are asking us to destroy the very magic which sustains us,” the leader dared plead. As if their very continued existence was not an offense against Father-flame’s memory.

“I am asking you to remove the Betrayer’s taint from this corner of creation,” Irwyn felt anger bubbling but stopped himself from acting yet. There were still living here, if relatively few. Fewer would remain if he fought another Named.

“Please, great one, in memory of Lumen and her Mercy, do not resort to slaughter,” they pleaded.

“WHAT DO YOU POSSIBLY KNOW OF THE LIGHTMOTHER TO DARE SPEAK HER NAME?!” and Irwyn screamed at the sheer audacity, all those corrosive emotions bubbling to the forefront. To desecrate the memory by such words! In his rage, he would have already burned them all the ash, heedless of the collateral damage, yet what stayed his hand for a moment longer was the pain. The grief, potent enough to stun him. The reminder that Lumen was truly gone. That he would never again feel her warm touch, her maternal love or worry. In that moment it gnawed at him all the more.

“I see,” and the necromancers abused that moment. “Then you leave us no choice at all.

Az gurdle fa’Merezit

Fer akarde Az’markiz,

Anbardle wi terezit:

Zerto paz TARAKIZ”

And in the tongue of necromancers, an Edict was proclaimed. The closest translation might be of Patient-Wisdom, or perhaps Waiting-Epiphany. Because, as Irwyn realized in that moment, that Edict had not been something set. It existed since its Name was forged but never quite took form. It patiently awaited that exact moment when it was necessary and allowed that wisdom in it to set it into what was required. And for that patience, it would be forever weaker, as long as the Named remained the same. Except, that first time when it was set into its form, it would reward all that waiting with exceptional power.

And it tried to destroy Irwyn’s very soul.

It latched onto him like chains, gnawing and crushing. Searching for any creek through which it could slip inside and devour. And did so with verve and power few could begin to comprehend, much less resist. It was a weapon with the sole purpose of killing a Named being without giving them the chance to resist. A sentence that would condemn nigh all into oblivion.

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Except Irwyn was no mere Named. He was the son of Flame and Light. The paragon of Stars. The Edict tried to gnaw at his soul and found it immutable. For he was not just his soul. He was also his Name, born into it and with it. Created explicitly for it. Therefore, his Name was also his Soul. And only an Aspect could damage another’s Name.

The clutches of the Edict broke, one by one, finding not the most miniscule purchase. Because such magic could not harm Irwyn. It never stood the slightest chance. But it could have been someone else than Irwyn coming here. Some other loyal Named, presenting the ultimatum. And they would have died, unable to so much as cry for help.

Irwyn looked down at the rot. At the horrible scheme they had prepared. At all the necromancers, most exhausted from empowering the Edict. At the leader, looking up with a glimmer in their long-dead gaze as if hoping they had slain a crusader. And at that moment Irwyn decided that nothing could remain from this little kingdom. That everything in this small Realm would be reduced to ash and molten rock.

But that was technically impossible. It was still a Realm and the restrictions of Realms still applied, set in the foundation by the Realmforger himself - an Aspect’s laws were not so easily defied, this one in particular. It would require an Edict, yet all those destructive he knew were not usable, destabilized by the Aspects’ deaths. Yet of his own two, one Edict was incomplete and the other was simply not capable of destruction. And still, he was bound by his oath. He could not create anything new to fit his needs.

Therefore, something had to be altered.

In his rage, wallowing in bottomless grief, Irwyn changed. The days of emotional torment had already brought him halfway there; this was just the final straw. Fundamentally, he changed. Most of his gentleness was taken by that burning rage. Replaced by the cruelty of combustion. But if only it was so simple...

Because Irwyn was the son of Light and Flame. A paragon, single leap beneath the creators themselves. When Irwyn changed, reality itself followed suit.

Millions of Stars screamed in the distance, mirroring his grief. They cried and cried and only stopped when their renewed anger compelled them to. And every Realm, every dimension that had so much as seen the reflection of a Sun shine onto it felt a flash of that scorching fury. Knew with unerring certainty that the skies would never again be as gentle as they had once been. And Irwyn… Irwyn sunk into his grief and spoke yet didn’t speak. For such a being was he that the world echoed his words. That they became true, even if they contradicted the past. Even if their damage would be irreversible. And he screamed such:

In my Name

With eternal scars

I proclaim

An Edict of Stars

And the Star that was born was not gentle. It was not a newborn vessel for a soul to inhabit. He would not give anything else to the Betrayer’s designs. The Star shone and burned, yet it was not restrained as it should be on a mortal plane. It fully and truly burned not far above the ground.

And everything just… evaporated. Stone did not have so much as a chance to start melting, the sheer heat turning it to gas. Metals, dirt, sand... magic itself. In mere moments there was nothing left in this small Realm, reduced to ash and then further into just raw decomposed mana which only fueled the Edict further. For a split second Irwyn had thought he had felt something from the side, but after a glance realized whatever it was had also been burned away. From boundary to boundary, from east to west, north to south, from the firmament above to the confine below, there was nothing left besides Irwyn and the sole survivor.

The Named Lich, perhaps anticipating a fight even after his ambush had shrouded himself in countless defensive magics. Those were the only things stopping him from being destroyed instantly. But they too were already failing. Irwyn willed to move and was in front him - no it - the next moment, allowing the heat to avoid them.

“You are a disgrace to everything the Aspects stood for,” the necromancer, Tarakiz, accused and Irwyn could see the pain of loss behind that stare. It was the curse of such power and exceptional mind that they could understand what they lost immediately and begin to grieve within the second it happened. Irwyn knew that very well.

“No, you are,” Irwyn said and his magic ripped into the Lich’s head. There he found the connection between the body and the Soul. And as almost all Named Liches had done, that soul had made the Name its phylactery. And nothing but an Aspect could destroy a Name, therefore, neither could they kill the Soul latched onto it. But it was not quite as perfect a merger as his own. They had found a way to seal it.

Golem’s contraption sprung and the soul was captured into a metallic box. Irwyn glared at it for a split second and left before the grief could catch up to him. The following minutes were a blur. The next thing he knew he was standing next to a Named fairy, poorly trying to hide her anger at the destruction that had spread even outside the profane kingdom. Fae were beings of such pure Life that although they could at times deceive even Named, such intense thoughts could seep through.

“Enough,” he spoke even though the fae was not speaking. He felt her flinch ever so slightly at the realization of what he was referring to. “I have burned away the Betrayer's rot, Thorn, and brooked no compromise. They stood in ambush to kill a loyal Named of our own and for that were turned to less than ash,” he felt the feelings changing in the fae, a thousand of alterations each second which he did not care to parse. “Take his captured soul and hide it away. Guard it or find someone else to do so, lest someone attempts to rescue it. That will be your duty,” he said and did not wait for confirmation, giving the soul to the Named fae. He did not remember if she answered. Then time passed, though Irwyn barely perceived even that much. He spared one glance to the two Stars on the Realm’s sky and then he was gone.

Golem spoke again and Irwyn went. One after the other. To slay the rot. Erase as much as he could.

Soon, it was the third dusk of the Crusade and all Irwyn knew was still torment.

It was not abating. It still hurt just as much as in the first moment. It numbed nigh everything into incomprehensible emptiness. For a few moments there was no traitor to hunt down before Golem could send him after another group of powerful necromancers. Then those distractions were becoming rarer and rarer. Hiding better or perhaps just because they were already so reduced in number.

And Irwyn burned them, again and again. Because when he wasn’t consumed by rage, he choked on grief.