The Spirit Hall had never known silence this deep.
The marble floor gleamed as if freshly polished by the stars themselves. The carved pillars that lined the long hall, etched with ancient runes of the Spirit Realm, seemed to breathe in unison with the anticipation that pulsed through the gathered crowd. Every spirit being, from the high priests robed in indigo to the smallest acolyte trembling with awe, had assembled to witness the most sacred ceremony of their age—the opening of the Spirit Ascension Trial Gate.
At the far end, beneath the high windows spilling silver-blue light from the twin moons, Queen Serenia stood. Her hair, white as moonlit frost, cascaded in loose strands down her shoulders, framing eyes that carried the deep weariness of a ruler who bore too many lifetimes of burden. Yet her poise was regal, her posture unbending, as if her body itself had become the pillar between worlds.
She had performed this ceremony countless times in history, yet tonight felt different. An unseen heaviness pressed upon her chest. The stillness was wrong—too sharp, too fragile.
Her gaze drifted toward the great gate carved into the wall ahead, sealed for centuries. The Ascension Gate, the only bridge where mortals could touch divinity, where chosen souls might attempt to rise beyond the shackles of flesh. It was meant to be a trial only for the brave, the desperate, the fated. And it was meant to be protected—kept apart from the hands of outsiders.
Tonight, that sacred line would blur.
---
Rows of spirits bowed their heads as Serenia raised her hands. The high priest beside her struck the ceremonial gong, the deep tone reverberating through the hall like a heartbeat.
"By the vow of our ancestors… by the pact of creation… the Gate shall be opened."
Her voice carried like an invocation, low and commanding, threaded with a power older than memory.
Incantations followed—each syllable curling into the air, weaving runes of pale silver fire that spun around her hands and traced across the sealed arch of the Gate. The atmosphere trembled. A deep hum vibrated in the bones of all present.
The light grew brighter, runes flaring awake on the stone. The sealed arch began to stir. Dust rained from the ancient carvings, and a low groan rolled through the earth as if the world itself recognized what was being unchained.
The crowd of spirits held their breath. Children clutched their elders' robes. Warriors shifted uneasily, hands brushing their blades.
And Serenia, though her face betrayed nothing, felt her pulse quicken. Something was wrong. The magic flowed as it always had, yet beneath it threaded a foreign current—like another hand guiding hers, unseen.
The Gate began to split.
---
The stone parted with a blinding flare. A great slit opened in the arch, not merely breaking into another space, but tearing into everywhere at once.
A gust of cold air spilled out, tasting of iron and shadow.
On the other side, a storm of realms unfolded—fleeting glimpses of endless desert sands, cities of brass, oceans black as oil, human kingdoms glowing with false gold. All the worlds the Gate had been meant to keep apart, now brushed shoulders.
The veil was broken.
Serenia's breath stilled. The Ascension Gate had always led into the Trial Grounds alone, a neutral plane for chosen challengers. But this time… it had ripped wider, a wound stitching together realities.
Anyone—human, beast, or spirit—could walk through.
---
The hum of magic had scarcely faded when footsteps echoed from beyond the breach.
Heavy, deliberate, armored.
From the swirling light emerged a formation of soldiers. Human soldiers. Steel gleamed under the glow of the Gate, their crests bearing the sigil of the Golden Throne.
Gasps broke from the spirit crowd. Swords hissed free. Priests clutched talismans, lips moving in frantic prayers.
And then he came.
King Veythar.
The man walked like a blade honed too long, sharp with cold arrogance. His crown was wrought not of jewels but of hammered obsidian, every edge jagged like a warning. His cloak of crimson fell heavy over his shoulders, trailing as though the blood of countless victories clung to it.
His eyes swept the hall—eyes of a conqueror, eyes that had seen empires burn and found only hunger in the ashes.
Whispers broke like waves among the spirits. The Human King… How did he come here? The Gate should not have allowed—
Queen Serenia stepped forward, her voice steady though her heart recoiled.
"This place is not yours, Veythar of the Golden Throne. The Gate of Ascension is sacred. What dares bring you into my hall?"
The soldiers around him slammed their spears in unison, their voices ringing:
"All bow before the Sovereign Flame of Man!"
The air trembled with their cry.
But King Veythar did not bow. He simply smiled—thin, sharp. "Because, Queen of Spirits, where the veil tears, sovereignty belongs to those who claim it first. And I have no intention of leaving the fate of Ascension in the hands of spirits alone."
Anger bristled through the crowd, yet none moved. Even the bravest spirit warriors felt a strange weight pressing on their knees, urging them to bend. It was not mere intimidation. Veythar's presence pulled, like gravity, like dominion itself.
---
But before the clash could ignite—
The torches dimmed.
A sudden hush swept the hall as though every voice, every heartbeat, was stolen in the same breath. Shadows lengthened unnaturally across the marble. The Gate's light flickered.
And then… he came.
From the threshold of the breach, a figure stepped forth—slow, deliberate, carrying with him an absence so profound it swallowed the room.
Azeriel.
No mortal title clung to him, no crown nor cloak. He wore black, simple yet endless, his presence vast as the void between stars. His eyes were silver—mirror-pale, depthless—and when they turned, the world itself seemed to shrink away.
The spirits gasped. Many did not even know his name, but their bones remembered. Their souls shivered at the recognition.
"The… God of the Veilkeeper…" one priest whispered, voice trembling.
The soldiers who had cheered Veythar moments ago fell silent. Some dropped to their knees without realizing, as though their bodies betrayed them in instinctive worship. Even King Veythar's jaw clenched, his smile faltering for the first time.
But Azeriel did not look at him. His gaze slid over the spirits, the soldiers, the Queen herself—searching, unblinking.
And then he spoke, his voice low, haunting, yet carrying across the entire hall.
"Where is she?"
The silence deepened.
Serenia's heart lurched. She?
Azeriel's silver eyes narrowed, flickering with something almost feral.
"The one who carries my mark. My vessel. The toy who wandered too far from my hand. Her scent… vanished. For three days."
Gasps tore through the hall. The spirits exchanged looks, confusion turning swiftly to dread. Who dared to bear the claim of a god?
And Serenia, though her expression held steady, felt her blood run cold. The pieces fell in place. The one he sought… Illyria.
Her daughter.
---
The hall teetered on the edge of chaos.
Spirits whispered prayers, their faith shattering as they realized gods walked where only kings once did. Soldiers faltered, torn between loyalty to their human king and the crushing aura of the divine.
King Veythar broke the silence first, his tone edged with defiance.
"So this is the fabled Veilkeeper. I had heard myths, but I see now why men tremble."
He did not bow. But even his arrogance seemed brittle under that pale gaze.
Serenia's voice cut sharp as steel.
"Azeriel. God of the Veilkeeper. Why do you stand in the Spirit Hall? The Ascension Gate does not call to gods."
Azeriel's head tilted, his silver eyes unreadable.
"Because what is mine has gone missing. And when gods are denied their possession… the realms unravel."
The crowd shuddered. The very air seemed to recoil from his words.
"Tell me, Queen Serenia," Azeriel's voice softened into something cruel, almost tender, "where is Illyria?"
---
The name struck like thunder. The hall froze.
Serenia's composure cracked for the first time, a flicker of fear in her eyes. Illyria… here? She should have been among the spirits gathered, standing with the heirs, ready for the trial.
But her gaze swept the crowd—and found only absence.
No silver-haired girl stood among them. No bright presence lingered where her daughter should have been.
The weight of the moment slammed into her chest.
Illyria was gone.
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
And in the silence, Azeriel's silver eyes gleamed with something darker than anger. Something possessive. Something endless.
The Gate still roared behind them, the worlds bleeding together. But all Serenia could feel was the hollow echo where her daughter's presence should have been.
The Ascension had begun. And Illyria was missing.
---
Queen Serenia's breath stilled for a moment as she paused and remembered Azeriel's words. Those words coiled like venom through the air—my toy. Her heart clenched, not in fear, but in something deeper, sharper, a mother's wrath that burned hotter than any flame. Her fingers, elegant and trembling only with controlled fury, closed around the silver-white wand resting at her side. The hall seemed to shiver as she drew it forward, its core pulsing with threads of starlight and ancient blue fire.
Slowly, deliberately, Serenia stepped forward until she stood face-to-face with the God of Veilkeeper, her gown whispering like a storm about to break. Then—crack—she brought the wand down hard against the polished stone floor, the sound reverberating like thunder rolling through the heavens. The spirits in the hall flinched; the air itself thickened. "Even if you claim to be a god," her voice rang out, clear and cold as a winter river, "you dare—you dare—to call my daughter nothing more than a toy? A plaything for your whims?" Her eyes blazed, not with mortal fire, but with the shimmering hues of her dominion—golden light braided with a deep ocean blue.
Her gaze did not waver as she continued, each word cutting sharper than the last. "If that is what it means to be a god, then you are unworthy of the title. A god who belittles life, who desecrates the bond between mother and child, who toys with souls as if they are threads in his pocket—such a god is nothing more than a tyrant cloaked in divine power. And here, in my hall, in the heart of the Spirit Realm, I do not bow to tyrants."
The spirits stirred in awe and disbelief, their queen's aura rising like a tidal wave, crackling against the veil of reality. Azeriel's expression did not change; his haunting smile stretched wider, his pale eyes glinting with something half-amused, half-feral. The air around him swam with shadow, as though the world itself bent under his presence.
He tilted his head, unfazed, and the weight of his words pressed into the hall like a shroud. "And yet—" he whispered, his voice silken, dark, "—she was mine long before she was yours to protect. She is bound to me, heart and mind. You speak of bonds, Queen of Spirits, but tell me—when was she ever yours to keep?"
For a heartbeat, silence devoured the hall. The spirits looked between them, torn between reverence and terror. Serenia's knuckles whitened around her wand, her fury no longer a storm contained but lightning made flesh. Without a single word more, she lifted her free hand high into the air. A shimmering radiance bloomed at her fingertips—blue and gold intertwining, threads of eternity weaving into a blade of light. She thrust her hand forward, striking Azeriel with the full majesty of her queenly might.
The impact rippled like a crashing wave. The hall itself shook, pillars groaning under the weight of power unleashed. Azeriel staggered—not much, not enough to fell him, but enough that his haunting calm cracked for the briefest instant. A thin line of crimson welled at the corner of his mouth, stark against the pallor of his skin. He lifted a hand, wiping it away with a smile that was too sharp, too knowing.
"You wound me," he murmured, as if amused by her defiance. His blood glimmered faintly in the light—divine blood, spilled in the Spirit Hall. The sight made every spirit present hold their breath.
Queen Serenia did not falter. Her voice, low and steady, rang across the silence. "Remember this, Azeriel. Even gods bleed."