Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Seven: The Ash of Fire, the Birth of Rebellion
The Throne of Flame had vanished, lost to the annals of time and memory.
Where, in ages long past, a seat was meticulously crafted from the primordial sparks that first ignited the universe—an unquenchable fire that had seen the birth and destruction of countless civilizations and had bestowed crowns upon deities while simultaneously bringing heretics to their fiery end—there now existed only a yawning chasm of nothingness. There were no remnants of ashes. No signs of ruin or decay. Merely an overwhelming absence, a void so deep that it swallowed all that was once holy and sacred. A stifling silence enveloped the cosmos—a silence that weighed heavily upon the hearts of the divine, suffocating all light and hope.
For the very first time since the universe was woven together from the vibrant threads of starlight, a somber lament echoed through the heavens.
In the majestic Celestial Citadel, under the watchful gaze of constellations and the celestial dome, stood eleven gods in a state of uneasy stillness. With their divine eyes fixed upon the gaping void where Vaelios, the once-mighty ruler, had commanded his celestial court, they felt the repercussions of his absence acutely. His name, once immortalized in burning letters across the vast expanse of the Dome of Eternity, had been inexplicably erased, vanishing not just from the records of time but from the very fabric of collective memory. His dominion, once an impenetrable bastion of power and authority, now lay desolate and forsaken, condemned to drift into the abyss where all forgotten relics and lost histories fade into obscurity.
The silence among the gods grew palpable, stretching taut as a bowstring, heavy with unuttered thoughts and unshed tears.
Finally, it was Erethur—God of Judgment, the eldest among his brethren and the one who had once stared into the abyss of annihilation and emerged unscathed—who broke the stillness. His voice, grave and resonant, cut through the silence like a clarion call.
"This is not merely an issue of cosmic equilibrium. The scales of justice are no longer our concern. It transcends mere retribution."
Approaching the assembly, he stepped forward with determined poise, and the very ground beneath him reverberated with his presence. At his side, Veredictum—the Sword of Finality—glowed with a dim and bloodless luminescence, radiating an energy that hinted at the vast power it contained.
"What we face now is war."
Yet far beneath the gleaming sanctum of the divine, in the scarred and troubled realm of mortals, a different kind of force began to stir—one that the gods had long turned their eyes away from.
Hope.
In the resplendent city of Lorianth, where marble towers reached majestically toward the vault of the heavens and the tattered banners of once-mighty empires fluttered listlessly in the breeze, a tremor coursed through the cobblestone streets. This was not a mere earthquake, nor was it the lament of aging stone. No, it was something stranger and far more profound—a memory, steeped in the essence of blood and spirit.
In the heart of the bustling market square, a woman felt time unraveling around her and collapsed to her knees, overwhelmed by a sudden prophetic vision. An ancient symbol—a malignant sigil shunned and forgotten—seared itself into her consciousness: a crown of brilliant flame, pierced by an echoing silence that threatened to consume all.
Simultaneously, elsewhere in the city, an old warrior awoke with a start, his heart racing and his body covered in a sheen of sweat. He screamed in terror, clutching his chest in disbelief, convinced he had witnessed a god with golden eyes traversing through flames, leaving trails of heat and light in his wake.
Deep beneath the monastery of Aldenros, in the darkened catacombs that held the secrets of ages long past, ancient tomes began to tremble upon their dusty shelves. One scroll—an accursed manuscript concealed by high priests eons ago—unfurled itself, unveiling a singular name inscribed in divine ichor:
Kazuren.
From the highest peak of the Observatory of Realms, the stargazers, pallid and deprived of restful slumber, trained their weary eyes upon the night sky. Their expressions shifted from confusion to shock as they witnessed the constellations themselves realigning, reshaping into forgotten patterns believed irreparably shattered. A whisper, barely audible, broke the stillness of the Observatory:
"The sky is remembering him."
Back in the ethereal expanse of the heavens, Virelya, the Goddess of Purity, gripped her delicate hands tightly together until blood seeped between her fingers, transforming into golden tears. Her once-radiant complexion dulled, fragile dimples of dread marking her divine visage. "If Vaelios has met such a tragic end…"
Iserion, the God of Fate, interjected, his voice somber and hollow, reverberating with an unsettling truth. "It isn't just that he fell from grace. It is the manner of his fall that is the true cause for concern."
He unfurled the Loom of Threads—the sacred scroll depicting all possible futures. An unsettling section of it had turned black, devoid of any light or possibility—utterly erased. Not burned away nor altered in semblance, but consumed completely.
"We are no longer mere spectators of prophecy unfolding," Iserion intoned gravely. "We bear witness to the very death of destiny itself."
Yet in the midst of this tidal wave of fear and disintegration, amidst the crumbling reality, a sliver of a plan was conceived.
With resolute determination, Erethur turned his back on the desolate Throne Hall and traversed alone down the Grand Hall of Eclipses. He set his sights on the Chamber of the First Lock—a room that had been sealed off for an unimaginable ten millennia.
As he approached the ancient gate, a whisper, rich with aged familiarity and resonating through the shadows, echoed from the darkness beyond.
"You've come to break the pact."
Erethur halted, his jaw clenched with unwavering resolve. "I come seeking to unleash that which even the gods themselves have long feared."
The door shuddered as if awakening from a deep slumber.
Chains rattled ominously within the confines of the room.
And from that shrouded darkness, a grin stretched across an unseen face—something ancient and powerful and waiting.
In another realm—beyond the constraints of time, reason, and the rigid laws of existence—Kazuren stood atop the fragmented altar of his casting aside. He gazed out upon the voided heavens above, where once twelve illustrious thrones had gleamed with an ethereal light, only eleven remained—a stark reminder of his own undoing. His golden eyes narrowed, a fierce determination igniting within him. One by one, the lights of the celestial court would surely fall.
He turned his gaze toward the west, where mountains wept rivers of sorrow and flames engulfed cities. There, mortal armies were rallying without clear cause or understanding, drawn together by an inexplicable force.
"They remember," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "Good."
To be continued...