Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Four: Thronefall
The Celestial Citadel loomed majestically above the undulating folds of reality, an impossibility given form—this towering fortress was not constructed of mere bricks or stones but rather intricately woven from the very bones of stars that had long since fallen from their celestial vigils. It floated in a realm that seemed to exist outside the boundaries of time and space, defying the very laws of nature. And yet, at that moment, it trembled with an unsettling foreboding.
For uncounted eons, the twelve thrones of the gods had stood sentinel in their hallowed hall, untouched by human hands, unmoved by mortal desires, and unquestioned by even the boldest of minds. These thrones were no ordinary seats; each was meticulously forged in the fires of creation itself, imbued with the essence of pure, abstract concepts—Time, Flame, Judgment, Light, and others, each embodying the fundamental forces that govern the cosmos. They had borne witness to countless wars that shattered universes, apocalyptic events that threatened to erase existence, and betrayals that shook the very foundations of divine lineage. Yet now, the serenity they had once exuded was disrupted, and fissures began to spread across their surfaces, deep enigmatic cracks manifesting in the timeless substance from which they were carved.
An unnatural silence suffocated the chamber, its weight heavy and oppressive. Gone were the divine hymns that had serenaded the gods, the holy light that had illuminated their path through the ages. Instead, an unsettling pulsation resonated in the air around them, a distortion that suggested the very fabric of reality was straining to maintain coherence in the face of impending chaos.
At the heart of this gathering, Iserion, the God of Fate, peered down at the scroll he held, a boundless tapestry of timelines interwoven with histories and potential futures yet to be realized. But as he scrutinized the scroll with his keen, piercing gaze, he felt his heart plummet. Threads of fate—metaphysical strands that connected lives and destinies—were vanishing before his very eyes, consumed by an all-devouring void.
"Entire paths are… collapsing," he uttered, his voice barely a whisper, thick with dread. "He's not bending destiny. He's devouring it. Each choice, each life… it's as if they never existed."
Beside him, Virelya, the Goddess of Purity, stood trembling, a radiant beauty that belied the growing turmoil within her. Divine ichor glistened on her lips, shining like liquid light. With each pulse reverberating from the mortal realm far below, her staff—a once-luminous relic of cosmic order—dimmed in its brilliance, struggling against the approaching darkness.
"It shouldn't be possible," she breathed, desperation lacing her tone. "We buried him beyond existence itself. His name—his very essence—should have been reduced to nothing but dust scattered across the cosmos."
And yet, as if to mock their belief, a single crack appeared overhead, spidering across the dome that loomed above them—silent yet luminescent, glowing faintly with an ominous red hue. Then came the sound that might have signaled their demise: CRACK.
In that very instant, a shard of marble—sculpted from the primal light of creation itself—plummeted from the heavens above, shattering explosively at the feet of the gods, sending fragments scattering like the lost hopes of an entire universe.
Then, as if in response to this cosmic upheaval, the Throne of Flame—Vaelios's seat—erupted spectacularly in a cataclysmic column of ash and fire. The explosion was so thorough, so incomprehensibly powerful that Vaelios himself was hurled from the dais, helpless and gasping, embers mingling with the blood that spilled forth from his blistered skin. In that harrowing moment, a god, once feared, appeared vulnerable and human. "He looked at me," Vaelios gasped, his wide eyes reflecting disbelief and terror. "From across realms. Through all the seals. He looked at me."
From the fractured air surrounding them, an ancient voice coalesced, laced with an authority and judgment that seemed to resonate in the very fibers of existence—deeper than the essence of Erethur, the God of Judgment himself. "You feared my rise. But you should have feared my silence." In the aftermath of the words, a tremor swept through the citadel, not of stone or structure, but a convulsion of reverence being twisted into overwhelming terror.
One by one, the gathered gods turned their gaze toward Erethur—the lone deity among them who had once stood against Kazuren in a battle that echoed through the annals of time. He stood slowly, the obsidian armor adorning his form igniting with an inner light that spoke of primal law. And for the first time in epochs, he drew forth his blade—Veredictum, the Sword of Finality—its sharp edge gleaming like the promise of reckoning.
"He's no longer just a threat," Erethur intoned, his voice low yet resonant, the weight of his words sending shudders through the very core of the assembled divine. "He is a reckoning."
And above them, etched in an inferno of brilliance and the abyss of void across the firmament, a single name blazed into existence: Kazuren.
In that moment, a profound silence enveloped the gods—not in awe of the looming threat but steeped in a visceral dread that chilled even the most resolute hearts. They stood on the precipice of something far worse than a simple confrontation; they faced the awakening of an ancient darkness that would not be easily cast back into the void.
To be continued...