The Sanctum of Radiance was the kingdom of angels.
It stood above the endless void as a sign of perfect order.
In the Chamber of the Ascended, a round table held figures of authority.
They wore white robes. Their wings were intact and neat, moving naturally.
These were not just angels. They were higher beings, bound not by time or death, but by duty.
At the head sat the Arc Metatron.
As a man of divine presence, he could not be fully described.
His voice, when he spoke, was deep and clear, echoing with the authority of countless celestial voices.
"I have summoned you to convene in the presence of the Eternal Design," the Arc Metatron said.
"In a few years, the hero descends. By divine order, the fall of the Bandit Fortress follows. And yet, the threads of fate are straying," he continued.
His fingers, ringed with gems, traced the crystalline edge of the table. "Tell me, what force has dared to disturb the symmetry of the cycle?"
One of the highest-ranked seraphim bowed his head before speaking. "The Highest Order must have altered the cycle after the actions of the previous hero, Arc Metatron."
A murmur of agreement passed through the gathered angels.
The Arc Metatron remained still.
Another seraph spoke, quieter but with concern. "We have already removed him. He no longer exists in the cycle."
Another voice added, "Before he vanished, he may have sown the seeds of knowing where they do not belong."
The chamber darkened for a moment.
"And what of the Bandit Kingdom?" the Arc Metatron asked, calm.
"The Bandit Lord has fallen, as was ordained. His sister has fallen as well," one of the seraphim said.
"As proof, we have their souls contained within this vessel."
He placed a flask on the table.
Inside, two faint glows wavered, the last remnants of life.
One of the angels exhaled. "Then the sown seeds have already fallen," he murmured.
The Arc Metatron reached out and touched the flask.
"And yet, the cycle remains altered." His eyes remained fixed.
"Speak. Has a hero appeared without our knowledge?"
"No, my lord," one seraph admitted.
"In the recent two wars, we have only seen normal beings. None of them had four or more elemental souls."
A quiet hum of thought escaped the Arc Metatron, rare from a being of his stature.
"And the gates of summoning?"
"The portal at the Celestine Concord has remained dormant. It has not activated for several years, not since the last hero arrived."
"Then the cycle remains intact," the Arc Metatron said, his fingers tightened slightly around the flask.
"It is the timeline that adjusted before its appointed hour."
"Then how should we proceed, my lord?" one seraph dared to ask.
One seraph lowered his head, wings folding in solemn acceptance.
"The Highest Order has altered the cycle and the timeline. We do not question their will. We remain as we are, watchers, enforcers of fate. We shall wait for the hero's arrival."
The Arc Metatron exhaled. His eyes narrowed as he released the flask.
"Our gaze rests upon one, the hero."
His voice held no doubt, only certainty.
"We neither call them forth nor stand in their way. The Highest Order has set their path, and we are but stewards of its decree. We shall stand, ever watchful, until the hero walks the path laid before them."
Silence followed.
Not in defiance, but in acknowledgment.
The cycle had been tampered with.
The world below continued on, unaware of the celestial discord above.
***
In the far reaches of the Sanctum of Radiance, where countless eyes watched the mortal world, a flicker of crimson pulsed in the divine expanse.
One of the Watchers noticed it, a familiar glow, like those who walked the lands of Firekeep and the fallen Bandit Fortress.
Nothing unusual.
The glow of mortals was bright in life, dim in death, always fleeting.
The Watcher's gaze lingered only for a breath before moving on, returning to the endless duty of observation.
And yet at the edge of sight, a flicker of something else appeared.
Not crimson. Not gold, silver, or any known hue of the living or dead.
A brief pulse, colorless but present, like the ghost of something that should not be.
But it was too faint. Too easy to miss.
And so, the Watcher did not see.
***
In the quiet hours before dawn, beneath Firekeep's ever-burning torches, a lone figure watched.
Rage lay still in the dim chamber. His scars showed the battles he had fought.
He did not move. Sleep came easily now.
From the rooftop of a nearby building, a shadow remained motionless.
A woman, wolf-eared and silent, crouched at the edge. Her keen eyes were fixed on him. Watching.
The night wind moved her dark hair, but she stayed still.
She stood quietly above the city, like a shadow watching over the streets and buildings below.
A sudden sound came, faint and far away. Her ear twitched. She did not move in any other way. If there was danger, she had already noticed it.
Then higher.
At the peak of Firekeep Fortress, beside the towering spire, a lone figure sat against the cold stone.
The wind carried the scent of steel and embers, rustling the edges of her dark cloak. She exhaled slowly, red lips parting just enough to taste the night air.
In her lap rested a curved blade. Its twin remained sheathed at her hip.
Her fingers traced the edge, testing its sharpness, feeling the whisper of death it promised. A ritual. A habit. A silent question to a blade that had already answered many.
Her gaze lifted. Beyond the spire, beyond the moonlit sky, she stared upward, toward the heavens, toward the unseen eyes.
She did not bow.
She did not pray.
She only watched back.
A smirk, deep as blood, curved against crimson lips.