The crowd fell into a chilling silence, as though the mere act of breathing too loud might warrant a death sentence. Yet within the Abyss, the cries of the dying, the crunch of bone beneath teeth, and the clash of battle were anything but foreign. Bjorns wandered in their mindless chaos, indifferent to the moment's gravity.
Still, in the presence of the Elders, every gaze remained fixed, none daring to avert their eyes. All awaited the announcement, the confirmation of the rumor that had stirred unrest beneath even the most stoic expressions.
Then, he spoke.
"The matter concerning the successors to the Late Demiurge and Mirah the Outcast has been thoroughly deliberated and resolved."
A ripple of murmurs spread across the hall, only to be swallowed whole by a sudden, thunderous gust that silenced all once more.
"For the Seat of the Sixteenth Elder," he continued, voice resonant and ceremonial, "we appoint the one worshipped as the God of Pathways, he who brings guidance and resolution."
Huh? Aurora's thoughts began to spiral, uncertainty twisting in her chest.
"He whose strength brings both tranquility and terror, he who enforces a path upon all, whether they seek it or not."
Huhhhhhhhh?! Aurora's mind reeled, unable to restrain her rising discontent. She knew the name that was coming. And she hated it.
"The Seat of the Sixteenth," Jarul declared at last, his hand lifting and turning with finality, "shall be claimed by Loki."
As his name echoed across the Abyss, Jarul's gesture beckoned the figure forward. Slowly, Loki moved, his form embraced by the miasma, curling like a serpent around his new seat, an embodiment of the chaos and order he was now meant to uphold.
Loki smiled, an indulgent, knowing grin, as he strode toward the Elders, toward the throne that awaited him. Toward a title he had bled and clawed his way to claim. With each step, the air seemed to buckle beneath his presence.
His true form, immense, regal, terrifying, began to unfurl like a sleeping god roused. Titans paled in comparison. Even ancient colossi revered, now looked like shadows beside him.
The atmosphere grew thick, reverent. The weight of something divine. His tails unfurled, splitting, multiplying, until there were sixteen of them, rippling like banners in an invisible storm.
Marcellus stood frozen, mouth parted, his expression mirroring the astonishment etched on every face among the Calamities. None, save for the Elders, had seen this side of Loki. None had known what he truly was.
Before him, the throne began to transfigure. Smoke slithered from its base, curling and devouring, reshaping itself into a jagged cliff suspended in air. Flowers bloomed from stone, crimson poppies, ghostly lilies veined with gold, and wild, nameless blossoms. They spread in a quiet unfurling, curling around crags and jagged edges like serpents crowning a monarch.
Loki reclined upon it slowly, the sheer majesty of his form settling into place, an image pulled from myth or nightmare. And still, the Calamities stared, eyes wide.
For in all the realms, only one other had ever dwarfed their understanding so completely, and that being's presence was a myth, spoken of only in the quietest corners, the first Guard lf the abyss. Loki, it seemed, was a second. And he now wore the crown.
"Why him?!"
Aurora's voice cracked through the silence like glass shattering. Her cry struck the stillness like a blade, and the Calamities turned, not in support, but in stunned silence. Yes, they were guards. But now? The hierarchy had shifted. And none dared defy the new order.
"You all know he aided the mortal. That he revealed my abilities to him!" Aurora hissed, every word shaking with fury. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice trembled. "Is that the behavior of a worthy Guard?"
Her gaze locked on the Elders. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Somewhere within, she knew, she had stepped beyond the veil.
The Elders did not speak. They merely stared down, their silence vast and ancient. And then it happened.
Loki's aura flared. It didn't explode, it conquered. The very realm quaked. The miasma that cloaked this world recoiled, then collapsed into him like breath into lungs. And then, silence.
The realm recognized him.
When an Elder is crowned, the land bends, the skies listen, and a sacred bond is forged. It was done.
The Calamities, one by one, bowed their heads, solemn, reverent, accepting.
Then, one Elder stirred. His voice echoed like wind over hollow stone.
"Is it true, mortal?"
All heads turned to Marcellus. The boy did not flinch. His voice rang clear.
"No."
The Elders held their silence. Then Elder Celine, her voice barely above a whisper, murmured:
"Rezo… ¡oh, sean sellados."
It was a gentle utterance. A lullaby in an ancient tongue. Yet its power rippled outward like thunder beneath the skin.
Aurora gasped. A pull, violent and unnatural, wrenched from within her chest. Her eyes widened in horror. And then…
Time seemed to pause. Her gaze met Marcellus's, but he would not look at her. She reached with her eyes, pleading, but he remained still, unmoved.
Then, rupture.
From her chest, a limb tore forth, twisted, thorned, forged from darkened branches. Purple petals bloomed wildly along its surface, beautiful and grotesque. The limb stretched skyward, fingers splitting, morphing, shaping into a head with jaws unhinged. A devouring effigy.
The air held its breath.
Then chaos. Vines and branches erupted from her limbs, her waist, her eyes, pulling, binding. Holding her in place. Flowers continued to bloom along her struggling frame.
Above her, the great head opened wide.
It began to feast.
Not with teeth, but with unmaking. It consumed its own body, working its way downward. Devouring Aurora. Devouring itself.
And in the final moment, as the jaws reached their source, it consumed its own head, vanishing entirely. No ash. No remnants. No scream.
Only silence.
Marcellus stood frozen, locked in place by something deeper than fear. His eyes met hers, his mother's, and in that brief, silent exchange, understanding passed between them.
Her earlier behaviour could have earned their wrath… and they had shown mercy.
Just as he now realized, cold and clear, that mercy was the only reason he still stood.
He hadn't stood a chance in their earlier encounter.
"Was it magic?" The question floated through his mind, half-whimsy, half-horror, echoes of tales from his past life where sorcerers bent reality and conjured fantasy from nothing. But this was no fantasy. This was power, raw and incomprehensible.
Then, cutting clean through the stillness, as though nothing had happened, Elder Jarul spoke.
"The newly appointed Fifteenth Elder… not worshipped, not praised. The more you peer, the less you see.
He who shrouds all in mystery...
Absalom!"
His voice rang with finality, yet his eyes searched the gathered crowd, as if expecting something, or someone.
Then it came.
"I reject."
The words cut like a blade drawn through silence. Cold. Sharp.
Above them, darkness coalesced. Not shadow, absence. A void that twisted and churned, forming something massive and ungraspable, just beneath the Elders' gaze but over all else.
Marcellus and Agnes stood still, eyes wide, minds unable to comprehend what they were seeing. Shapes moved in that darkness, or maybe it moved without shapes at all. Something older than reason.
Murmurs swept through the hall like a quiet storm.
"How long has it been since we've seen him?"
"I'll never get used to that sight…"
Even whispered, the voices carried weight. Marcellus could hear them. Agnes could too.
They were witnessing a legend given form.
And then,
A single voice, etched in ancient awe, cried out, shaking the soul of the hall:
"The SECOND GUARD OF THE ABYSS, ABSALOM!"