Above the Primal Neon Tower, the sky pulsed with cerulean light.
The Sacred Pools of Thalassara shimmered in suspended brilliance, their oceanic hues reflecting across the ancient visages gathered far below. Those from the Lineages of myth and legend- all beings whose very existence once shaped the weavings of the Plane- stood quiet, eyes trained upward toward the pools that had descended like celestial offerings.
And then, toward the man seated beneath them.
Achilles sat still.
His golden robes, woven from starlight, rested against the radiant throne as calmly as his breath. He did not smile. He simply gave a light nod, slow and deliberate, in answer to the question that lingered in the air like a charged storm.
"These waters," one voice had asked, skeptical and sharp, "are they truly the source of your power? Of how you've come to manipulate Destiny to such a terrifying extent?"
He met their eyes with quiet certainty.
