The sky didn't crack.
It peeled.
Like the skin of the world was torn open from the heavens, and something ancient and golden stepped through.
Seven figures.
Floating.
Their cloaks shimmered like glass dipped in stars. Their faces were hidden behind blank masks, each shaped differently—one a spiral, one a mirror, one a tear, and the rest unreadable.
The girl dropped to one knee.
Not out of reverence.
But survival.
"Don't move," she whispered.
The boy's heart slammed in his chest. "Who are they?"
"The Watchers," she breathed. "The Seven who remember every Name."
"And they don't forgive."
One of the Watchers stepped forward.
The sky bent around them.
No wings. No feet. Just presence.
Their voice came from nowhere and everywhere, soft as silk and sharp as razors.
"Who has dared to speak Raekhael?"
The boy felt his body lock.
His mouth went dry.
He tried to speak but choked on the air.
The girl stood now, her hand gripping the hidden blade again.
"I claimed the name," she lied.
The Watchers didn't flinch.
But one of them raised a hand.
A name appeared in the air.
Written in glowing, golden glyphs.
The boy's name.
The forbidden one.
The truth.
"He is the vessel."
"He carries the Forgotten Flame."
Suddenly—
The girl was gone.
She moved like smoke.
Her blade aimed for the closest Watcher.
The world blinked.
She was on the ground.
Bleeding.
Chest heaving.
Eyes wide.
The blade was broken.
The Watcher hadn't moved.
"You have raised steel against memory," it said coldly.
"The punishment is unmaking."
A second Watcher floated forward.
It reached down toward her—
And the mark on the boy's arm burned.
The glyph flared black.
And the sky screamed.
A shockwave.
Not wind. Not magic.
Name.
It blasted outward from the boy's chest like a bell tolling at the end of time.
Three of the Watchers staggered.
Two disappeared instantly—flickering like dying stars.
The one with the mirror mask turned sharply.
"He's not a Vessel."
"He's a Godborn."
The others froze.
"That name belongs to the First Tongue. Not spoken since the era of Thrones."
"He should not exist."
"He cannot exist."
"Erase him."
They all raised their hands.
Seven symbols floated above them—each one ancient, swirling, alive.
The girl crawled toward the boy.
"You have to run."
"I can't."
"They'll end everything."
"Then what do I do?"
She touched his chest.
"Say the Name again."
He stared at her.
She nodded.
So he did.
"Raekhael."
The world turned inside out.
The mark on his skin exploded in light.
The air bent.
Not from heat, not from force.
From command.
The Watchers didn't attack.
They froze.
Like the word itself had slapped the power from their hands.
The boy stood.
The glyph on his body now extended across his throat, like a collar made of ink and shadow.
One of the Watchers spoke with something close to fear:
"He's not just a Godborn."
"He's… a Namekeeper."
The girl gasped.
"No one's been born with that title in over a thousand years…"
"What does it mean?" the boy asked.
She looked at him, pale.
"It means your name doesn't just carry power."
"It carries others."
He stared at his hand.
His blood.
The ink.
The fire.
"…How many?"
The sky trembled.
The Watchers vanished in a flash of gold.
Not retreating.
But summoning.
Because from the clouds above—
Came a tower.
Floating. Black. Endless.
And from within it—
A voice louder than godhood itself:
"You carry the Last Name of God."
"And for that, the world shall fall or rise with you."
TO BE CONTINUED…