The silence that followed Illyria's disappearance did not remain within the Spirit Realm alone. It bled outward, into realms that should have been untouched, into domains governed by eternal laws where no mortal echo should ever reach. Yet even the oldest gods, those who had seen aeons crumble into dust, felt the tremor.
The heavens trembled as if eternity itself had been struck. In the Divine Realm, where time and law had been written by ancient thrones, cracks began to blossom across the pillars of order. They did not spread like mortal fractures, but like wounds across the memory of creation itself—splintering not matter, but truth. The seven main gods, lords of dominion and keepers of cycles, lifted their gaze to the firmament only to see their own thrones reflected in broken glass. Around them, a hundred lesser gods whispered with voices that had not trembled since their birth, and at the heart of it all the God of Balance pressed both hands upon his scales, yet even his eternal measure wavered.
Something that should not exist had walked through their law. A creature born not of divine will, nor of human faith, nor of natural origin—but of a fracture in story, a thing unnamed in any scripture. The forbidden presence had fooled even Azeriel, master of deception, the one who claimed sight over every falsehood. His eyes, which had seen through angels, demons, mortals, even the folds of time, had bowed to a lie so complete that it rewrote memory.
Whispers churned into storms. The halls of the Divine Palace swelled with clamor, each god demanding the other confess what they had seen, for none dared name it aloud.
"It cannot be."
"An illusion."
"A false eternity, and yet…"
The sentence died each time, for even gods feared to bind it into words.
In the Divine Realm, the air split as though existence itself was holding its breath. Pillars of light that had stood unbroken since the dawn of memory began to crack, hairline fractures etching their way up like veins of shadow against radiance. One by one, the Thrones of the Seven Main Gods trembled, their golden roots splintering as if fate itself had pressed its hand against the foundations of eternity.
Upon the highest throne sat the Creation God of Eternity, a being whose breath had birthed oceans of time, whose fingers had etched stars into silence. His eyes, old as the first dawn, closed with unbearable weight. For he alone had looked fully into the truth, and in that instant he had known what no other would name: this was not a lie nor a dream, but a contradiction too perfect.
To exist was sin. To erase it was impossible.
And so he bore the toll.
Before the gathered hosts, his body unraveled into ash—no scream, no sound, only the fall of eternity crumbling into silence. The gods cried out, their voices shaking mountains, but nothing answered. The Creation God was gone.
It should not have been possible. Eternity does not burn. Memory does not falter. Yet here, before the trembling thrones, proof lay like dust, and in that dust lingered a scent that even gods did not recognize—a creature that should not exist.
The throne of eternity, once radiant with creation's pulse, stood vacant, cracked from crown to base. And as though fate itself mocked the order of heaven, every throne began to fracture in mirrored sympathy. The seat of war bled crimson light. The seat of love split with a sigh like breaking glass. The seat of wisdom groaned as if old stone could weep. Even the throne of balance, the axis of all law, trembled under strain.
Through the cracks bled not ruin, but memory—unraveling visions spilling across the heavens. Worlds flickered and shifted, as though eternity could not decide which story had been true. In one moment, the Spirit Realm burned to ash, its towers consumed by war. In another, it gleamed whole and unbroken, untouched by destruction. The gods beheld both truths at once, and their faith faltered.
The God of Balance, whose duty was to weigh all things, rose from his throne. His scales—always level, always calm—tilted violently, one side plunging into nothingness. The metal groaned, a sound older than time, and the god's hands shook as he tried to steady it. But the scales refused him. They tipped again, not toward good or evil, not toward chaos or order, but toward an abyss that should not have been.
Whispers rose across the realm. A hundred lesser gods abandoned their thrones, their luminous forms flickering in fear. They stared at the vast dome of eternity above them where stars of divine law had always burned steady. Now, those stars bent and warped, spinning into spirals, as if memory itself were bleeding into new shapes.
And at the center of it all… was absence.
"Which memory is ours?" whispered the God of Balance, his voice lower than dust. None answered him, for none knew.
The gods looked to Azeriel, their supposed pillar, their orchestrator of mortals and memories. But even he sat unmoving, his hands pressed against the arms of his throne, eyes wide with disbelief. For the first time since his ascension, Azeriel looked not like a god but like a mortal who had been deceived. His lips moved without sound, the word "impossible" shaping itself but never leaving him.
And the cracks widened. Across the high throne hall, fissures split the marble floor, glowing with rivers of light. The laws of creation, usually invisible, now spilled forth in fragments—equations, runes, and burning glyphs falling like feathers of glass.
A single phrase wove itself into the silence, not from any god but from fate itself:
"The story has changed."
The gods shuddered. All seven main thrones groaned as though they were about to shatter. The balance of eternity had been rewritten, not by any god, not even by Azeriel, but by a being whose existence bent the laws themselves.
And in their silence, awe crept in like frost. For every deity there, every immortal that had watched countless ages, felt the same thought gnaw at their immortal hearts: if even Azeriel was deceived, if even Eternity itself was consumed, then what is left untouched by that creature's shadow?
The thrones groaned again, louder, as though fate were choosing in secret, preparing some dangerous reckoning yet unseen.
…
Far below the stars, another realm bled into silence.
The Beast Realm shuddered as its jewel of balance, the ancient core that held dominion between chaos and harmony, shattered into a lattice of broken light. The protective barrier, a veil woven by generations of monarchs, fell in ribbons across the sky. What should have been a storm of divine fury was instead a quiet collapse, as though the realm itself mourned.
At the heart of the fallen sky stood Seraphine, the Dragon Queen, monarch of beasts, her body trembling beneath weight no army could inflict. Her wings, once radiant with gold fire, hung dim and heavy. The jewel's destruction had stripped her power from root to bone; she felt the thrum of her heart falter, the wellspring of her divinity turn hollow.
But power was nothing compared to the grief that caged her chest.
For in the ruin of her soul, she felt it—that sudden, aching silence where Illyria's presence had always lingered. A void in place of a heartbeat. The severing of a bond not of pact, not of spell, but of love so fierce it had rewritten fate. And now it was gone.
Before the gathered Beast Lords—serpents coiled in steel, lions crowned in flame, ancient titans cloaked in fur—she fell to her knees. The stone cracked beneath her weight, but no one moved. Even Valerina, her sister, sharp-eyed and iron-willed, stood frozen as Seraphine's body curled upon itself.
She had never wept in the open court. Never faltered, never lowered her head before beast or god. Yet now the sound of her grief tore across the chamber like thunder, raw and human.
"Illyria…" The name left her lips not as a monarch's command, but as a lover's cry, fragile and breaking.
Silence bound the court. The Beast Lords, who had sworn to her as sovereign, looked on not at a queen, but at a soul undone. None dared interrupt. Even Valerina's hand, trembling at her side, did not rise to comfort, for what hand could reach into such grief?
Seraphine's mind unraveled into fragments. Flashes of Illyria's smile, the gentle way her hand brushed along her scales, the fierce stubbornness in her gaze, the unyielding heart that had chosen her above all else. Student, warrior, queen, soulmate. Every memory layered with every grief, every joy crushed into ache. She felt them all at once, as though eternity itself mocked her with the weight of all she had lost.
When at last her tears stilled, what remained was resolve—raw, violent, desperate. She would not accept absence.
Though her power was broken, though the jewel was shattered, though the barrier was gone, Seraphine's heart reached across the realms, groping for a thread of Illyria's soul. And faintly, almost cruelly, something stirred.
For Seraphine was not merely their queen. She was their Monarch. Every emotion she felt resonated through the bond that tied her to her realm. Her grief became theirs.
And yet, in the depths of that grief, resolve was born.
Her tears slowed, though they did not stop. Her trembling hands pressed harder into the ground until she rose, her long hair shadowing her face. When she lifted her head, her eyes burned—not with despair, but with unshakable determination.
"I will find her," she whispered. The words were quiet, but they struck the chamber like thunder.
Valerina stepped forward, her own tears glistening. "Sister…"
"She is not gone," Seraphine said, though her voice trembled. "Not truly. They will believe the Spirit Realm is ash. They will believe she is lost. But I know. I will tear through realms if I must. I will burn the skies, I will shatter thrones, I will—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, her breath shaking. "I will bring her back."
Silence fell across the chamber. Even the Jewel of Balance, though broken, seemed to hold its glow for a moment longer in reverence.
The Beast Lords bowed their heads. Not in pity. Not in fear. But in loyalty. For though their queen's heart had broken, her spirit had not.
And as Seraphine stood amidst the ruins of her world's protection, her grief and resolve blazing, fate shifted once more.
The gods in the Divine Realm trembled on their fractured thrones. The beasts in their citadel bent beneath the weight of their queen's mourning. The human realm waited, ignorant, beneath Azeriel's illusions.
And somewhere, beyond sight, beyond memory, Illyria's sacrifice pulsed quietly, defying death itself.
---
A whisper not of sound, but of knowing.
Seraphyne followed it.
Through broken skies and trembling stars, Seraphine's wings carried her into the Spirit Realm.
She expected ruin—ashes, war, silence. Instead she beheld towers gleaming as if never touched, forests blooming with eternal light, rivers singing as though they had never tasted sorrow. The Spirit Kingdom stood perfect, whole, unmarred. Not a scar, not a trace of battle.
Her body trembled as she walked among them. Spirits bowed low, their faces serene, their voices welcoming, but their eyes… their eyes held no recognition of the absence she carried. No grief. No loss. To them, nothing had been destroyed. To them, Illyria had never been theirs to mourn.
Every street, every hall, every garden breathed perfection, and with every breath Seraphine's heart sank deeper. For though the kingdom was whole, though the people thrived, there was no trace of the one she sought.
Her hand clutched her chest, fingers digging against bone as if she could claw her heart open. The illusion—was it illusion? or truth?—smothered her.
She lifted her eyes to the palace of the Spirit Queen, radiant in its crystalline beauty. Its gates opened, its halls stretched in splendor, its throne gleamed untarnished. Yet the seat was empty. The one who should have sat there, the one who had once held her hand in secret, was nowhere.
The Spirit Realm was alive. Illyria was not.
Seraphine's knees weakened. Her wings dragged the ground. For the first time in her life, she wished for destruction rather than wholeness. At least in ashes she could find reason for her grief. But here, in perfection, her loss was unbearable.
"Illyria…" she whispered again, but this time the sound did not echo. It vanished into the perfect air, unanswered.
And Seraphine, monarch of beasts, Dragon Queen, unbroken sovereign, sank into silence, her grief heavier than ruin.