The heavens trembled.
The war was long over, yet the scars of it remained. Great halls carved of starlight still bore cracks where divine fire had once struck. The air carried whispers of battles that had burned for millennia.
And now, in the highest chamber of the divine citadel, the gods gathered.
Solyrian, the head of the gods, stood before them. His voice carried weight that shook even the silent pillars.
"The seal has been broken."
Gasps echoed through the council. Some gods rose to their feet, wings flaring in fury, while others froze in disbelief.
Eryndor, God of Justice, slammed his hand upon the marble table. "Impossible! The Book of Games was sealed with the power of all three Eternal Beings. No devil could have touched it."
Nysera, Goddess of Fate, spoke softly, her eyes clouded with visions unseen. "And yet... a thread has slipped. I see it woven into mortal history. The page lives."
Silence.
From the throne above, the Eternal Beings watched. Aetherion, the Creator, radiated light, yet spoke not a word. Veyra, the Preserver, sat with stillness colder than eternity itself. And Kaelthur, the Destroyer... he leaned forward, lips curved ever so slightly, as though amused.
Solyrian's gaze burned. "Draviel."
The name spread like poison. The Rotten Devil. Last of his kind.
"It was him," Solyrian continued. "In his death, he tore a page free. A game remains unsealed."
Eryndor snarled. "Then we descend! We scour the world until the fragment is destroyed."
But Nysera raised her hand. "No. The page has already rooted itself in mortals. It passes like a shadow, from one vessel to another. Destroy the human, and the page finds another. Strike one flame, and it will light the next. We cannot simply... burn it away."
Murmurs rose, gods clashing in argument. Some demanded destruction. Others begged caution. The hall thundered with their voices until Solyrian raised his staff, silencing them all.
"Then we must fight as they do," Solyrian declared. "Not with armies. Not with storms. But with pieces upon the board."
Eryndor frowned. "You mean... humans?"
"Yes." His eyes swept across the council. "The devils planted their rot within mortals. We shall plant our light. Not as rulers, but as guides. As players."
From above, a low chuckle drifted across the chamber. Every head turned.
Kaelthur, the Destroyer, rested his chin upon his fist, smiling with an unreadable gaze. "A delightful irony, is it not? Gods playing games... just as the devils once did."
Veyra stirred, her voice calm as still water. "Enough, Kaelthur."
But his smile lingered, as though he alone knew where the game would lead.
Solyrian raised his staff high, and light flared. "So be it. We choose our champions. Mortals who shall carry our will. Through them, we shall crush the shadow of the torn page, wherever it hides."
The council bowed, though unease lingered in their hearts.
Far below, in the mortal world, a whisper stirred.
The page had already chosen.