Chapter 154
Meanwhile, three figures stood silently, their forms barely disturbed by the dim air of the hall, gazing upon rows of floating mirrors that hovered like sentinels. Each mirror measured roughly two feet by four feet, stacked in threes and aligned in four neat rows—twelve in total—positioned about ten feet from a massive, semi-circular table shaped like a crescent moon. The table, twelve seats carved into its smooth, shadowed surface, was bathed in a solitary beam of light, which fell softly across the darkened room.
Above the crescent table, the opening revealed not a simple source of illumination, but an entire cosmos spilling its brilliance down into the chamber, a galaxy of stars, nebulae, and drifting celestial lights painting the room in an otherworldly glow
Yet even this cosmic spectacle, magnificent as it was, remained secondary to the true focus of the hall. Beyond the reach of the light, in the depths of shadow where the eyes strained to discern detail, rose a flight of immense steps. Each step was vast, as though constructed for a giant, and at the apex of this colossal stairway, two seats awaited. One was empty, its twin untouched, while the other held a presence that defied the ordinary senses.
It was the god Aether, seated with a weightless grace, a form humanoid yet untethered, intangible yet tangible in essence. Faint currents of luminous energy swirled around him, drifting and folding in patterns that seemed almost conscious, casting delicate reflections off the metallic, armor-like clothing that shimmered across the gaps of his form. His presence was neither bright nor domineering; it radiated a subtle, almost contemplative light, a stillness that demanded attention.
Around him, the twelve gods observed, their gaze fixed on the floating mirrors below. Each reflected the events unfolding within the tower, where human players had struggled and clawed for five long years, striving to reach the upper floors. From their twin-throne vantage point, the gods' eyes, calm, eternal, and inscrutable followed every movement, every effort, every triumph and failure, as if measuring the fleeting ambition of mortals against the immensity of divine patience.
The hall remained hushed, the only sounds the soft hum of celestial energy and the distant echoes of a universe in motion, while Aether rested, yet watched, his awareness bridging the vast distance between cosmic stillness and the chaotic struggle below.
The hall was vast, a cathedral of shadow and light, and in its center, the floating mirrors hovered silently, reflecting fragments of a universe contained within. Three figures stood just beyond their reach, cloaked in unusual, intricate garments that marked them as administrators representatives of the old gods.
Their presence carried authority and restraint, as if they existed to monitor and record, not to interfere. Each of them moved with measured precision, eyes scanning the shifting reflections of the mirrors, studying the actions of the mortals who struggled through the lower floors of the tower.
At the apex of the immense stairway, the twin thrones remained, monumental in their simplicity. One seat stood empty, a quiet counterpoint to the other, where the god Aether rested. He was a paradox of form: humanoid, yet intangible, a swirling lattice of faintly luminescent energy. His metallic-like armor glinted softly in the dim cosmic light, revealing glimpses of a structure beneath that seemed almost fluid, as though he were both there and not, a presence simultaneously anchored and free.
The energy around him shifted in subtle currents, a dance of quiet power that betrayed his watchful awareness. He did not move or speak, yet his gaze seemed to flow outward, threading through the darkness, reaching the three administrators below, and even stretching to the first floors where human players struggled to advance.
Among the administrators, Sigma was the most visibly tense, a frown etched across his sharp features. He was the old god's head steward, yet he carried an impatience not often allowed within the order. The chaos on the first floor, a place where Daniels' players had begun to manipulate the tower in ways the old gods had neither anticipated nor fully understood—had ruffled him.
Sigma's frustration was apparent in the slight snap of his fingers, the subtle tightening of his stance, but it was an irritation born not from divine will but from personal bias. Though he had once attempted to derail Daniels' progress, hoping to maintain the old gods' carefully constructed plan, his actions were no reflection of the gods themselves.
The other two administrators stood silently beside him, their expressions unreadable, yet their attention was fixed, unwavering. Unlike Sigma, they carried a quiet amusement, an acknowledgment that the human's unpredictable maneuverings were creating ripples of genuine interest among the old gods. At first, Daniels' actions had been confusing odd, almost reckless, and frequently defiant of the intended narrative of the tower.
But now, as he pushed further, reshaping the challenge in small yet significant ways, the three old gods had begun to watch more closely. The subtle arrogance, the audacity, and the ingenuity—the things Sigma found irritating, were precisely the elements that drew divine fascination.
"Observe," one of the administrators murmured, his voice a low hum that seemed almost swallowed by the darkness. "He moves where none should dare. He bends rules without breaking them… yet his path is precise. The old gods will want to witness this."
The other administrator nodded once, barely perceptible, and Sigma's frown softened, though reluctantly. Even he could not deny that Daniels, with every forward step, was challenging the tower itself, reshaping it in ways that were, in the end, oddly commendable. The three of them exchanged glances that carried centuries of understanding a silent agreement that this mortal, this element of change, was worth attention.
Slowly, imperceptibly, they began to communicate with the absent gods, those who had wandered away out of boredom, informing them that the events unfolding were no longer trivial. Daniels' narrative had finally drawn the interest of the divine.
From the twin throne above, Aether remained unmoving, yet the energy that wrapped his form shifted subtly, almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging the administrators' observations. The mirrors below captured the faint ripples of light in his aura, refracting them across the hall, giving the illusion of motion where there was stillness. He was patient, eternal, and above all, observant.
And while the three old gods below weighed Daniels' progress and Sigma wrestled with his conflicted annoyance, the hall itself seemed to lean closer, holding its breath, as if the very walls anticipated the unfolding of something remarkable.
Five years of effort had led to this point. Mortals clawed their way upward through the tower, and for the first time, the gods themselves, restless, calculating, and distant—were compelled to watch.
The three administrators lingered near the floating mirrors, the faint glow of reflected cosmos brushing the folds of their elaborate garments. Sigma, Beta, and Rho—representatives of the old gods watched silently, though each thought spiraled differently in the still air of the hall. Sigma's gaze was sharp, restless, fixed on the images of Daniels' ascent in the tower. His mind churned with irritation and disbelief.
How had a mortal, a single player, gained such a foothold? The progression defied expectation, his power accumulation seemed almost unnatural. Sigma clenched his hands subtly beneath the fabric of his robes, fighting the reflex to intervene. "This… this shouldn't be possible," he thought, a twinge of frustration sharpening his focus. "There are rules… laws even the tower must enforce. Yet here he is, twisting and bending them, and somehow he survives."
Beta, standing to Sigma's left, observed quietly, though her thoughts were steadier, tempered by calculation and experience. She had issued orders herself in the past, commanding gatekeepers to purge anomalies that breached the tower's designed order. She remembered the Gorge Anomaly vividly a disruption that threatened the balance, quickly resolved by her directive.
She knew the tower's laws were strict, unwavering in their judgment. Yet, watching Daniels now, she felt a grudging admiration. His actions, though bold, did not violate the tower's rules. He maneuvered within the boundaries, navigating hidden paths the old gods themselves had overlooked or left dormant.
Rho, the third administrator, leaned slightly forward, his fingers brushing the surface of the nearest mirror as if testing the currents of energy reflected in its frame. Unlike Sigma, his thoughts were calm, philosophical even. He recalled the ancient instructions from one of the primordial coequals who rested above them on the twin throne.
"The laws of the tower are retained," Rho reminded himself silently, "not to suffocate ambition, but to preserve the balance of consequence and freedom. Even a mortal may move within them, if the design allows."
Sigma broke the silence first, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the hall's hush. "I cannot accept this. How has he done it? How does Dane Lazarus, now as Daniel, gain such power without triggering the tower's failsafes? When the Gorge Anomaly happened, I saw the system purge it immediately. He should not even exist at this level. The tower should have erased him!"
Beta's voice was calm but firm, a counterpoint to Sigma's agitation. "He has not broken the law, Sigma. I know the Gorge Anomaly well. I commanded its purge because it violated the design—because it threatened the structure itself. But Lazarus? He moves within the law. Every manipulation, every seemingly clever shortcut… it is all sanctioned by the tower's own framework. You may find it frustrating, but it is not cheating."
Rho interjected softly, contemplatively. "We must remember why the tower's laws were retained. The primordial coequal instructed that the old gods preserve them, not to micromanage, but to ensure the system could sustain itself while allowing growth. Lazarus' progress, Sigma, is disruptive only in appearance. In truth, it is lawful. Even the cosmos above—Aether himself—observes without interference, because there is nothing to punish."
Sigma turned sharply, the tension in his shoulders evident. "Lawful or not, it undermines order! He bends the rules, finds paths no other could see, and gains power the tower should never allow. It is dangerous. It cannot be ignored. If the other gods saw this—if they knew how far he had reached"
Beta raised a hand, cutting him off gently. "Dangerous? Perhaps. Unexpected? Certainly. But consider this: the tower is designed to challenge, to test. If a mortal, through ingenuity and effort, advances, he fulfills the purpose of the tower. Even the anomalies of the Gorge were removed because they were outside the intended test. Lazarus' actions do not break the intended laws—they respect them, manipulate them wisely. That is the difference."
Rho added, his tone steady, almost patient,
"You focus too much on the appearance of power. What he is doing bold, clever, even audacious, is not defiance.
The tower itself allows it. The law does not prohibit ingenuity, Sigma. Remember, we do not act as jailers; we observe. And in this observation, we see that he navigates precisely as the law permits. If we were to intervene now, we would be violating the system more than he ever has."
Sigma's jaw tightened, but the fire in his eyes flickered. He glanced at the mirrors, the reflections of Daniel ascending slowly through the tower, determined, movements careful yet daring. He swallowed the lump of frustration in his throat and muttered, almost to himself, "So… he is lawful… and still infuriating."
Beta let out a quiet, almost amused sigh. "Yes, lawful and infuriating. The old gods, I suspect, are watching closely. His cleverness is a rare element, one that even we cannot replicate. Perhaps it is time to accept that not all progress is meant to be controlled."
Rho's eyes softened, a faint smile brushing his lips beneath the shadow of his hood. "Indeed. Let us observe, then. Let the tower speak through him. Let the law itself be the judge, not our impatience."
The three administrators remained, standing near the floating mirrors, their forms bathed in the subtle glow of the cosmic light. Above, Aether rested, silent, yet ever-watchful. Below, the mortal players continued their struggle, unaware that their every move, their ingenuity, their audacity, had drawn the attention and quiet admiration of the old gods themselves.
And in that still, immense hall, the lines between law, power, and ambition were blurred, observed only by those patient enough to understand that even mortals could shape destiny within the confines of the divine system.
The three administrators stood like statues in the half-light of the hall, yet closer inspection revealed the subtle signs of their tension. Sigma's robes were sharp-edged, angular, and layered with a metallic sheen that reflected the dim cosmic glow, giving him a blade-like presence even while unmoving. His dark hair, streaked with silver, fell in precise lines across a face that was both handsome and severe, the kind of face that made mortals instinctively flinch.
Every motion was taut and deliberate; every glance carried the weight of scrutiny. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the floating mirrors, tracking every motion of Daniel's team below. Internally, he seethed. How does he manipulate the tower so precisely?
Every action measured, yet so utterly… unpredictable. This defiance of expectation—of order—it gnaws at me. If I had the authority… no, even we cannot undo this. But must we remain idle?
Beta, in contrast, exuded a quiet, commanding elegance. Her robe was a cascade of violet and silver, embroidered with intricate sigils that shimmered faintly in the reflected light of the cosmos. Her hair was a long braid, dark as the void, woven with strands of luminescent thread that shifted like starlight as she moved.
She stood with one hand resting lightly on the edge of a floating mirror, the other hidden beneath her sleeve, her posture both relaxed and inherently authoritative. Inwardly, she considered Sigma's agitation with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
He always responds first with fire before thought. Daniels' progress is remarkable but lawful. I purged the Gorge myself. I know what it means to act, to uphold law where disorder threatens. Yet this… this mortal is playing by the rules, bending them without breaking. And he succeeds where many would fail. Sigma sees chaos, I see balance in motion.
Rho was quieter still, a figure cloaked in deep indigo and bronze, his robes flowing with a fluidity that mirrored his calm, measured temperament. His eyes, pale gold, glimmered faintly in the half-light, reflecting the distant stars above. Rho's hair was long and silver-white, cascading over broad shoulders that carried the weight of centuries without tension.
Where Sigma was fire and Beta was calculated authority, Rho was patience itself. Yet inside, he churned subtle reflections. He is audacious, yes, yet lawful. The laws we retain are not chains; they are instruments of balance.
Even the coequal on the twin throne, Aether watches without interference. The mortal is within the system. To intervene would be to break that delicate structure we are meant to preserve. Still… there is tension, a curiosity, a test within a test. This Dane Lazarus could reveal more than any of us foresaw.
Sigma's frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as he gestured toward the mirrors, tracing the paths Daniels' players had taken. "Look at this! He ascends with such precision. He knows the timing, the patterns, the traps.
The tower should have removed him at the first anomaly! The Gorge would have erased any mortal who dared approach this cleverly. Yet here he is, untouched, gaining power, shaping events. How is this lawful?" His voice was low, dangerous even, as though the very walls of the hall might absorb his frustration and echo it back.
Beta's lips curved into a faint, measured smile. "Lawful, Sigma. Every manipulation, every clever exploit he performs is sanctioned by the tower's design. The system does not punish ingenuity that remains within its bounds. You forget, we purged the Gorge because it violated law, threatened structure itself. Daniels? He respects the boundaries even if he stretches them."
Rho shifted slightly, leaning on the mirror's edge, fingers brushing the faintly shimmering surface. "The primordial coequal who instructed us made this clear: the tower laws exist to retain balance, not suppress growth. Even Aether, resting above, does not interfere. That alone should tell you he has not broken law. Sigma, your impatience is visible, but we are observers first, not enforcers. If we act now, we intervene in a lawful system, something even the coequal would caution against."
Sigma's fists tightened beneath his robes, the tension coiling in his frame. "Balance? Growth? Words. He manipulates the tower to serve himself! He gains power the system should never allow! It is dangerous. If he succeeds—if the others see this—it undermines our authority. The gods themselves… will they not notice? Should we not act before it escalates further?"
Beta's hand rested lightly on Sigma's arm, not in physical restraint but in a gesture of calm authority.
"Do you hear yourself, Sigma? You speak as if the system failed, yet it functions precisely as intended. Daniels is the element that tests the tower, that challenges stagnation. His arrogance, yes mildly audacious—is permitted by law. That is why the coequal, why even Aether, does not move. To act now is not preservation—it is interference, a violation of the very law you claim to uphold."
Rho added softly, contemplatively, "We are the old gods' stewards, not the architects of fate. If the tower's law allows his progress, then let it proceed. Even Sigma's irritation must bow to the system's design. Observe, do not disrupt. Learn from him, perhaps even understand the subtlety of law applied through ingenuity. There is knowledge here, even for gods."
Sigma's gaze flicked from Rho to Beta, tension etched into every feature. A storm of frustration and reluctant admiration raged within him, his pride wounded by the mortal's cleverness. Finally, he exhaled slowly, his voice subdued but firm. "Lawful, yes… but infuriating beyond measure. I will watch… but I will not like it."
Beta's eyes softened, a faint smile appearing. "And yet you watch. That is all that matters. Let the mortal play his game. The tower will endure, the law will endure, and perhaps, in observing, even we will see something new."
Rho's pale gold eyes flicked upward toward Aether, the faint glow of energy swirling above the twin throne. "Observe, Sigma. Observe, Beta. Let the system itself reveal what must be revealed. The mortal tests, the tower endures, and we… we remain. That is the true measure of patience."
The three administrators returned their attention to the floating mirrors, each lost in their reflections and deliberations. Daniels continued his ascent, unaware of the divine scrutiny, unaware that the very foundations of the tower, the laws it preserved, and the eyes of old gods rested upon his every calculated step. And in that immense, shadowed hall, subtle tensions simmered, personalities clashed, and yet, through their debate and restraint, the balance of law and freedom endured.
Sigma's sharp eyes were fixed on the first floor, where the human players had begun to clear the initial gauntlet. "See that?" he snapped, his voice low, almost a hiss as he leaned toward the mirrors. "He anticipated the trap layout perfectly. That should have been impossible. The tower laws should have purged him at the first misstep. How has he bypassed it?" His fingers flexed around the metallic edges of his robes, the energy from the mirrors reflecting off the angular armor-like layers of his sleeves.
Beta, standing beside him, folded her arms elegantly, the luminescent threads of her braid swaying as she shifted her weight. Her eyes traced Daniels' movements with precision, noting each calculated step. "Impossible?" she countered softly, yet with firmness. "No, Sigma. It is entirely lawful. Observe: he uses the environment, the traps, the corridors—all within the tower's sanctioned boundaries. He tests, yes, but he does not break. You confuse ingenuity with subversion."
Rho, fingers lightly tracing the floating mirror nearest him, nodded, his tone calm and almost musical. "He bends expectations, not rules. That distinction is subtle, but it is fundamental. The primordial coequal entrusted us to maintain the tower's laws, not to obstruct growth. If we intervene now, we violate the system more than he ever could."
Below the vast hall where the old gods observed, Daniels and the combined forces of three guilds three hundred strong, gathered once more, readying themselves for the next push. The air was thick with tension, a mixture of dust, distant smoke, and the muted clamor of markets that had long since become ghostly in their quiet panic.
The three guild leaders stood at the center of their forces, exchanging glances of tacit understanding. Years of shared trials, failures, and victories had forged a bond stronger than mere alliance.
Each leader stepped forward, raising their hands to call attention. Their voices, though steady and calm, carried weight and authority born of experience. "Remember your training," one said, voice clear over the murmurs of the soldiers. "Every drill, every maneuver we've rehearsed together, this is what will carry us through the chaos ahead."
Another leader nodded, adding, "No matter what happens, trust the team beside you. The enemy will not be your only challenge; the land itself will test you. Rely on your instincts, rely on your guildmates, and the tactics we've honed in secret. Every strike, every defense, it has a purpose."
The third leader, his gaze sweeping over the combined ranks, allowed a brief smile, rare and fleeting. "We move as one. No hesitation, no second-guessing. We do this not because the tower commands it, not because the merchants demand it, but because we have prepared. Together, we are unstoppable."
Within the ranks, soldiers adjusted their gear, tightened straps, and checked weapons. Their eyes, bright with anticipation, betrayed a mix of fear and determination. Many had been shaped by prior battles, others were still learning the cruel rhythms of tower combat, yet all understood the gravity of what lay ahead. And though the Merchant Kingdom of Solnara Cererindu had seen untold turmoil in the past years, conflicts, betrayals, and disasters the combined guilds had trained in secret, refining techniques and strategies that might never have been necessary if the kingdom itself had remained stable.
A ripple of energy seemed to pass through the ranks, subtle but unmistakable, as if the combined will of three hundred individuals formed a current of cohesion. Even as low level players hurried in the background, hauling goods and securing wares, the guilds moved with silent precision. Every member remembered the drills, the patterns, and the formations they had practiced somewhat instinctively now, as muscle memory and loyalty intertwined.
The leaders fell into formation at the head of the column. Sigma, Beta, and Rho might have watched from above, their celestial deliberations continuing, yet below, in the chaos of the mortal realm, the guilds prepared to advance as a single, seamless force. The three hundred, though diverse in skill and background, shared a quiet understanding: they would survive this, or at least, they would face the tower's challenges together.
As the first steps forward were taken, the very ground echoed under synchronized footfalls. Arrows were readied, spells whispered in hushed tones, and banners fluttered faintly in the breeze, carrying the sigils of the three guilds interwoven into a single emblem. The joint force moved with careful confidence, aware of the danger that awaited them in the tower's upper floors. But above, the eyes of gods lingered on every movement, watching how human ingenuity, audacity, and meticulous preparation might alter the course of events that had long been observed and subtly guided from afar.
In the quiet before the inevitable clash, the guilds' leaders shared a brief, almost imperceptible nod. Their silent communication carried volumes: stay disciplined, trust your training, and no matter the number of undead that came, the three guilds were united. The tower's challenges, the anomalies, and the hidden trials that had already tested them were formidable, but together, they would move forward, each step calculated, every action purposeful, toward the unknown that awaited on the other side of the open barren land,
The ten enchanted battle wagons creaked forward, each drawn by a hulking bull whose obsidian horns glowed faintly with warding runes. Around them, the combined host of three guilds—three hundred hunters strong, moved in disciplined silence. Their illusions shimmered faintly at the edges, cloaking their numbers in wavering mirage.
The artifacts worn around their necks and wrists lightened their bodies, letting boots touch earth as softly as drifting feathers. Noise-cancellation wards rippled like unseen veils, swallowing the grind of wheels, the clink of steel, the heavy breath of warriors. They had turned themselves into shadows.
It was necessary. The open terrain of the Merchant Kingdom's frontier was treacherous. Undead roamed freely across the plains, shambling in herds or crouching like hunters in the long grass. But Daniel, along with the two other strike leaders, kept the way clear. Whenever a corpse-knight lurched too close, or a bone-winged horror took flight from a ruined farmhouse, the trio moved ahead like scythes in the dark, cutting swiftly and silently, leaving only stillness behind. By the time the main column reached the spot, there was no sign of danger. Only the faint smell of dust and rot on the wind.
Thus they pressed on without incident, and when the horizon finally ended, they found themselves at the broken border of Karion, the land of the dead. Here stood the first test of six, the first knot that had to be cut before the march toward the capital could continue. Rising from the scarred plain was Grisval, the City of Echoes, girded in low walls that sagged under centuries of decay.
Within them, one hundred thousand undead roamed in endless unrest. The sound was constant murmurs, wails, the ceaseless rasp of bone against stone, an echoing dirge that gave the city its name. The fallen seraphim had bound a cursed artifact to its heart, a relic that turned the city into a vast amplifier of death's whispers. It was here the guilds must strike first.
Beyond Grisval waited Erethune, the Fractured City. Once a thriving stronghold of artisans, it now resembled a broken mirror. Streets cut jaggedly through split stone, towers leaned at impossible angles, and whole districts had sunk into fissures torn by unnatural tremors. The undead here were scattered and half-shattered, yet unnaturally persistent, crawling from cracks, dragging their ruined bodies through endless collapse.
Next came Dravensk, the Dead City, where silence ruled more heavily than any army. No birds flew overhead, and no wind stirred its empty avenues. The air itself seemed strangled, and the dead within were eerily still statues until disturbed, yet lethal once awoken.
From there the path would lead to Drasklorn, the Glass City, its spires and walls made from crystalline stone that refracted pale light into a thousand shards. It was dazzling, yet cruel to behold, for every pane and street reflected the faces of the dead thousands of skulls shimmering in broken prisms. It was said those who stared too long at the city's reflections could see themselves as corpses, fated to join its ranks.
The fifth challenge was Feyrath, the City of Petals, once renowned for its vast gardens and flowering groves. Now, thorned vines and black blossoms choked its avenues. The undead here moved like ghosts among the ruined orchards, their withered forms dripping with pollen that numbed the senses and dulled the mind. Beauty had been twisted into venom.
Then Merfleur, the City of Silent Bells, awaited. A coastal stronghold, its towers still bore countless bells of silver and bronze, yet none had rung for centuries. Every strike of wind through its hollow streets produced no sound, as though the air itself had been smothered. The undead here wore armor etched with rusted bells, silent hunters moving in ghostly patrols, their weapons dripping brine from the drowned harbors.
And at the end of all paths loomed the cursed heart of Karion: the capital, the City of the Forsaken. Four million undead dwelled there warriors, smiths, artisans, all bound to endless labor. It was not merely a capital but a forge, a living factory of death. Weapons of terrible design poured endlessly from its furnaces: siege engines of bone, artillery powered by necrotic flame, blades that hummed with the resonance of stolen souls.
This place had once been the proud seat of the Graves dynasty. King Algernon Iriandel Graves had founded it, a half-elf born of the earliest settlers in the west, before the gorge was carved to separate their land from the rest of the continent. His legacy had turned to ruin across generations, until his descendant, King Halrandir Vaegon Graves, betrayed it utterly.
Halrandir abandoned the grace of elven heritage and the wisdom of his forebears. In his lust for dominion, he transformed the kingdom into a machine of ceaseless war, an empire bent upon the crafting of weapons that could slaughter nations. Deep beneath the capital, he unearthed the secret that cursed them all: a buried engine of divine punishment, an artifact of forgotten wars, pulsing with hatred. In awakening it, Halrandir bound his people to undeath, shackling them to their forges, their swords, their slaughter, forever.
Now the City of the Forsaken stood as both fortress and graveyard, kingdom and factory, a monument to one family's ambition and one king's folly. And under it, beneath layers of ash, gears, and bones, still beat the reason why none within Karion would ever know rest.
High above the plains of Karion, in realms unseen by mortal eyes, the Old Gods watched. Their thrones were carved from the essence of creation itself—mountains of living stone that breathed with the pulse of the earth, seas of molten light that ebbed and flowed in rhythm with their silent heartbeats. Constellations, like endless rivers of fire, were woven into their robes, each star a prayer once whispered by mortals below. They were the first and last architects, the makers of law and form. Each gesture of their hands could unmake a city, each idle thought could birth a star.
They were power itself, distilled into shapes that men and women had knelt before since time's dawn. And yet, for all their might, they were not free.
The laws that had given them form were also chains. Each god was the embodiment of one principle, one eternal current in the river of existence. None could step beyond what they were. War could not weep as Love did, Love could not rend as Wrath did, Wisdom could not blind itself as Chaos might. They were whole and unyielding, but never complete. To be divine was to rule without choice.
Thus they watched, vast and impassive, bound to the lattice of their natures. When mortals cried for their aid, they did not truly decide to answer; they acted because the law within them demanded it. A god of mercy would always move to shield, no matter if mercy invited ruin. A god of vengeance would always strike, even if vengeance shattered a kingdom that might otherwise have healed. To them, freedom was an illusion belonging only to fleeting mortal souls.
Below, the three hundred guild members threaded silently across the dead plains, illusions cloaking them, spells shielding their passage. The Old Gods observed, their visions stretching not just across the battlefield but across past and future alike. They saw Grisval, City of Echoes, already trembling with the weight of prophecy. They saw Erethune crumbling, Dravensk silenced, Drasklorn gleaming, Feyrath blooming in thorns, Merfleur drowned in silence. They saw the capital's forges burning ceaselessly with the labors of the damned.
They saw Daniel.
And here, for the briefest flicker, silence stirred among the thrones.
For Daniel was not part of the weave they had written. His presence was a jagged thread, an intrusion into the tapestry of inevitability. Sigma, Beta, and Rho—the subtle echoes of divine law, the fragments closest to thought among the gods, had debated already, wondering if such a figure should be permitted to walk unchallenged. Yet even they were bound. They could not act against him unless the essence of what they embodied compelled it.
The God of Order felt his nature itch at Daniel's unpredictability. The God of War felt no kinship, for Daniel's wrath was mortal-born, not divine. The God of Death tilted her veiled head, curious but unmoving, Daniel was not yet hers, and thus she had no right to reach for him.
And so the Old Gods watched, vast and terrible, mighty but shackled. They could rain fire on Grisval and turn its hundred thousand undead to ash in a heartbeat. They could level the forsaken capital with one command. But they could not. For to do so would be to step beyond the laws that made them. And the laws had written: the fate of Karion would be decided by mortals.
The thrones remained still. The heavens remained silent.
And Daniel, who carried no throne, no law, no chain but his own, walked forward into the shadow of gods and kings alike.