ARTIZEA
ARTIZEA APPEARED IN THE PENDRAGON CASTLE COURTYARD, collapsing to her knees as the energy faded. Eugene rushed toward her, their voices filled with concern, but all she could do was stare at the space where Rhyssandshould have been. In an instant, he teleported her away from the battlefield, leaving her in a safe clearing far beyond the reach of the fight. As she screamed his name, her voice echoed in the emptiness. She felt the lingering trace of his celestial energy dissipate, leaving an unbearable emptiness.
"No…" she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Eugene's face was pale and weary from the spell he had just cast. He placed a trembling hand on her shoulder. "I can sense His essence.. He's alive, but… unreachable," he said.
Artizea's tears did not stop. She clenched her fists, the ache of loss. Then came a squawk.
Fin darted through the smoke-filled air, weaving gracefully through the ashes and wreckage.
Artizea turned sharply, her gaze narrowing as the griffin dove toward her. "Fin—" she muttered.
"Shape shift?" Eugene said incredulously, "Of course…Light and darkness."
Fin flapped his wings impatiently, hopping closer as if every second mattered.
"I'm sorry, I should have listened. If he wasn't protecting me, he would have…"
"Your Highness, now is not the time for blame," Fin said, its small voice urgent but clear."Lord Rhyssand has been taken to trial."
Artizea's breath hitched. "A trial?" she repeated, the words tasting like poison. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
"One he will lose." Fin pounced once more, "The heavens are holding him accountable for what he's done. For the battle. For breaking many laws."
Artizea clenched her fists. "They came first!"
"Regardless of the reasons," Fin chirped quickly. "He does not have much time. And if you do not get to him now—"
"Then what?" Artizea demanded, her voice cracking. "Tell me, Fin!"
"Depends, memory erased, and if that doesn't work, then they will exile his soul to the realm of eternal rest; but they would never risk his physical body in enemy hands…my money's on factory reset."
The word was like a blade to her chest. Artizea stumbled back, but her shock was short-lived—replaced swiftly by fury and resolve. Her crimson eyes blazed like fire. The vibrating energy gathered within her.
The chambers of the Sleeping King were dimly lit, the light of the setting sun filtering through the tall, ornate windows. The once-mighty king, now lying unconscious on the grand bed, was a shadow of his usual self.
His breathing was steady but shallow, and the aura of invincibility that had always surrounded him was gone, replaced by the quiet vulnerability of a man who had given everything for his family and kingdom.
Artizea stood at the doorway, her gaze flicking to her mother and her siblings, who lingered near their father's bedside. Artizea stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. "May I have a moment alone with him?"
Arthuria hesitated, her gaze lingering on her husband's still form before she nodded. "Of course," she said softly, her voice filled with both trust and sorrow.
She ushered the others out of the room, though Elaine cast one last glance back before the doors closed.
The room was silent save for the faint sound of Gilgamesh's breathing. Artizea approached the bed, her steps slow and deliberate.
For a moment, she simply stood there, looking down at the man who had been her father, her king, her greatest teacher, and her harshest critic.
"I know you can't hear me," she began, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. "But I also know that if you could, you'd have some long-winded speech ready to remind me of my responsibilities, my power, and my duty." She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against the edge of the bed. "I do not need to hear it this time. I know what I have to do." Taking a deep breath, she straightened with determination. "I request my birthright… I will not let them take Rhys."
The king still lay unconscious after the battle, but she could imagine what he would say."And what will you do with the treasures of the gods, child? Defy the heavens for a fallen angel?"
"HE FELL FOR ME," she shot back. "I will protect him, no matter what," she said, her voice unwavering.
"I told you the world won't let you have both."
"I know," she replies without hesitation. "But a wise man told me with great strength comes great responsibility, who conquers strength must conquer himself."
The king's weakened, but his presence was suffocating.
"And I have," she retorts, "But I could not have done it without him," she says, stepping toward. "Just like you could not face council without mother—" she chuckled.
There was a moment of silence, then light bloomed. A faint, golden shimmer ignited around her feet, swirling upward like dust caught in sunbeams. They were footsteps, they drifted ahead of her like a patient guide. Artizea followed it through the chamber, breath held tight in her chest. When it paused before her father's desk—his private corner, untouched by anyone but him—she hesitated. Resting on the table was a bronze key. Her hand hovered, then touched it; it warmed in her hand as her veins turned red. Light rippled out from the key. Her heartbeat echoed strangely, as if it no longer belonged solely to her. She was being connected.
To him.
Then the room around her blurred and reformed. She stood in the same hallway, but everything was… different. Quieter. Dimmer. Empty of guards and servants. The air felt younger. Footsteps echoed.
Artizea's breath caught.
A boy stalked past her with regality, golden hair wild, eyes bright with untempered fire. Her father, before the crown. He did not see her, but she followed him. When he turned a corner, she hurried after him—and nearly collided with a man twice his age. Her father again, now around twenty, jaw sharp, eyes burning. Anger carved into every line of his face. He stared at a space on the wall, disgust twisting his expression. A painting had once hung there.
One he clearly hated.
Artizea ducked behind a column as he turned, heart racing… but when she peeked out again, he was gone. She wandered—guided by instinct more than direction—until she reached the throne room. That was where she saw him next. Her father stood beside another man… one with hair the color of wheat and golden eyes. Their laughter filled the chamber like sunlight.
"Brother…" her father said softly.
Artizea froze. Her father looked happy. Unburdened. Alive in a way she had never seen him. They walked toward the balcony, side by side. Artizea rushed to catch up—but when she reached the balcony and looked down, the warmth shattered. Her father knelt in the courtyard below, cradling the fading body of his brother. Enkidu's form dissolved into the earth, returning to whatever divine clay had made him. Gilgamesh sobbed. For the first time in her life, Artizea heard her father cry. She sprinted toward him—helpless, desperate, wanting to comfort the man who had never once allowed himself to break in front of his children. But the scene shifted before she reached him. She was back in the palace, standing outside her parents' chambers.
Her mother—who slept deeply—midwives bustling quietly around them. She glanced down the hall, and her heart thudded. Because she saw him again, walking toward her, cradling something in his arms. Her. A newborn wrapped in white linen. She remembered this moment—from her own memories—His voice echoed in her mind, the words she had built her strength on her entire life.
"I will never forsake you… not for anything. My pride."
Gilgamesh paused. He looked directly where she stood. He shouldn't see her. He could not see her. But he smiled. And then— He winked.
"Dad…?"
The moment the key slipped out of her hand. The vision dissolved before she could reach him. Before she could speak to him, before she could say the words she had never managed aloud.
I am proud to be your daughter.
She blinked and found herself back in her father's chamber. Back beside his unconscious form. Back with the bronze king still warm in her palm. She stood trembling, gasping, the key still warm in her hand. But her heart was steady. Clear. She knew exactly what he meant now; all those years ago, she knew where she needed to go. A place she suddenly knew she had to reach. She looked down at him, her heart twisting. Leaning close, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "I won't let you down, Dad," she whispered.
Then she ran.
Through the corridor. Past the great marble stairs. Down the torchlight halls where shadows clung to the walls like watchful spirits. She did not dare use her new abilities; she would come to understand —every flicker of power counted in the long run—so she sprinted until her lungs burned. At last, she reached it. The cage. The one meant for her. The chamber of containment, carved deep beneath the palace. She braced her hands on he hall. Its metal vibrated faintly—alive, almost eager. She traced the key along the wall, letting instinct guide her. A rune flared under her palm. Her breath hitched. Her father's name—his true name—glowed in stark gold:
GILGAMESSIAH.
She swallowed hard and pressed the key into the newly revealed lock. Click. Light burst outward, brilliant and blinding, sweeping across the stone. The chamber shook as ancient mechanisms awakened for the first time in centuries. When she stepped inside… Her breath left her entirely. The Treasury of the King, or as her father liked to call it, "Every treasure her father had ever stolen from the gods." Every relic from every realm he conquered. Gold piled higher than her head, artifacts throbbing with power, scrolls bound in dragon leather, orbs of light floating freely in the air. And in the center…The Chains of Heaven.
They lifted like serpents sensing prey—or recognizing their rightful heir. Gleaming in gold and celestial fire, the chains coiled through the air in curves and loops, humming with raw divinity. They wrapped around her arms—slowly, deliberately—as if choosing her. Their power pulsed through her skin, her bones, her blood.
Her destiny was finally answered, at last.
When she made it back to her father's chambers, her family was waiting in the corridor, concerned. She turned to her brother, her voice calm but commanding. "I need your help."
Eugene leaned against the wall, a frown tugging at his lips. He straightened, his brows furrowing. "What kind of help?"
"I need to get to the celestial realm," she said firmly. Her voice carried the weight of urgency. "And you are the only one with the connection to make it happen. Rhys taught you the spells."
He hesitated, his green eyes narrowing as he considered her request. "He did, but—"
"There are no buts—" she interrupted, stepping closer. Her gaze softened, but the fire behind it remained. "He needs us, Eugene—"
"Do I look like Merlin the fucking Great to you all?!"
The siblings gasp.
"I am saving father, I'm saving you, I'm protecting the realm—"
Before Artizea could respond, the sound of flapping wings drew their attention.
Fin flew in through the window, but hit his wing; he was not used to the size difference yet.
The siblings exchanged startled glances as the bird landed on the windowsill.
"We are running out of time!" Fin squawked.
Elaine stumbled back, wide-eyed. "Is that a griffin?"
Arthuria blinked, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words. "I've seen a lot of things, but this…"
Eugene, however, remained calm, "It never surprises me anymore how completely unaware this family is of our history."
Artizea ignored Fin's theatrics and turned back to her brother. "You are right, I am sorry, I—You are the only one who can do this, Eugene. Please."
He glanced at his siblings, then at the sparrow, before sighing. "If this goes sideways, do not blame me."
Fin flapped its wings impatiently. "It is, always the blaming game with you Pendragons! Let's go!"
ISHTAR
The prison was eerily quiet, its walls pulsating faintly with divine energy. Shackled to the ground by celestial chains, Rhyssand sat slumped against the wall, his wings dim and his armor battered. The sound of soft footsteps echoed through the chamber. He did not need to look up to know who it was.
Ishtar stood just beyond the barrier of divine runes, her presence commanding even in silence. Clad in resplendent robes of silver and gold, Ishtar regarded him with an unreadable expression. "You fought well," she said finally, her voice cool but with a trace of something softer beneath.
Rhyssand raised his head slowly, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Save your breath, mother," he muttered
Ishtar's brow twitched, but she maintained her composure. "You might not want to hear it, but It is the truth. Even chained, you are still my son. And your strength is undeniable."
He laughed, the sound hollow. "My strength? You did not come here to compliment me."
Ishtar stepped closer, her gaze narrowing. "You have always had your father's arrogance. But even he knew when to submit to the will of the gods."
Rhyssand's expression darkened, his chains rattling as he shifted.
For a moment, Ishtar's mask slipped, a flicker of genuine emotion crossing her face. "You think I wanted this for you?"
"Didn't you?" Rhyssand shot back, his voice rising. "You sent me here. You ordered me to deceive her. To destroy her. And when I did not—when I could not—you threw me to the wolves."
"You betrayed us…" she said sharply, her voice regaining its edge. "You turned your back on your duty, on your family."
"I turned my back on you," Rhyssand corrected, his voice steady. "And I'd do it again. "
Ishtar's jaw tightened, her divine aura flaring faintly. "She is a threat, Rhys. To the balance of the realms. To everything we've built. If you can't see that—"
"She's a threat to your power," Rhys interrupted, his tone cutting. "You are not afraid of what she'll destroy. You are afraid of what she'll become."
Ishtar's composure wavered, and for a moment, she looked not like a goddess, but a mother burdened by choices that had fractured her family.
"You think I do not feel the weight of my decisions?" she said quietly. "You think I haven't sacrificed to keep this realm intact? I sent you because I believed in you, Rhys. Because I thought you'd understand."
Rhyssand met her gaze, his expression unyielding. "You did not send me because you believed in me. You sent me because you thought I'd be like you."
Ishtar's lips parted slightly, but no words came.
Rhyssand leaned forward, "But I am not you, and I am tired as shit pretending this is not who I truly am…"
Ishtar stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the chamber. As the door closed behind her, Rhyssand leaned back against the wall, his breath unsteady. Despite the chains, despite the pain, he felt something he had not in a long time.
Hope.
Ishtar swept into Demeter's chamber, her robes still unsettled from her earlier visit to the prison. He sat at his desk, fingers pressed to his temples, eyes shut in clear warning."Not now, Ishtar," he said, voice low, strained.
But she did not stop.
"We need to erase his memories," she pressed, stepping closer. "If we do not, the council will kill him."
Demeter's eyes opened slowly, "I told you—to leave him out of this."
She huffed, pacing. "You and I both know—he dug this grave himself. Loving her? Loving a monster? Not even I would devise something so… sick and twisted." Her voice caught, panic creeping through the cracks. "But he is still our son. I need your support at council—he will still be ours, just—"
"Don't."
The word cut her cold.
Demeter rose from his chair, slow, deliberate, cold fury simmering beneath his skin."I will agree to the verdict. In turn, you will agree to something else."
She folded her arms. "What are you on about now?"
He stepped closer, voice a low snarl. "We. Are. Done. And I mean it, Ishtar. Gods damn it—every time I look at you…" His jaw tightened. "I can't help but want you dead. Do you know what that's like? Being the God of Life— and wanting your wife dead?"
Ishtar's breath caught. "You would not dare—"
"I will if I have to—" His gaze gleamed with cold certainty. "I want a divorce, and you are going to grant it."
Her lips curled, defiant. "On what grounds?"
"Infidelity. " His smirk was humorless. "And Thanks to your colorful past and continuous track record —I have all the proof I need." He paused
"Like you haven't also—"
"I implied it, and you ran with it, because you wished to believe it," he said, "If you think you can blackmail your way out of this one, I would advise against it." He leaned in slightly, voice low, dangerous. "Lest you wish the Council to know every law you have broken to fulfill that —sinful—appetite of yours."
She stared at him in disbelief and was lost for words.
He turned away, reaching for his spear. "Keep it all. The Realm, the throne power. Crown your little pet king consort for all I care. But when the sun sets on this trial—I am leaving you, Ishtar, and I am taking —my son—with me"
Ishtar shook her head, "No—Demeter, please—do not take him away from me."
Demeter slammed his fist into the wall next to her head. "Dead or alive, Ishtar. You are out of time. Do not make me choose for you."
She panted. He was serious.
Without another word, Demeter strode down the long corridor, heavy footfalls echoing behind him.
Azreaphel was waiting. Their eyes met briefly in passing. Demeter's expression was cold as stone, but he said nothing.
Azreaphel watched him disappear down the hall—then heard soft, choked sobs from inside the chamber. Without hesitation, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
"My queen—"
"Get out…" Ishtar snapped.
"Ishtar—"
Her slap cracked against his cheek.
"How dare you speak my name?" she hissed. "As if I were some low-level light-born."
Azreaphel, cheek burning, stood his ground. "Am I not to be your new consort? Should I not act as such?"
Ishtar let out a bitter laugh. "Demeter has better odds getting a divorce than you ever standing beside me as consort. He is mine—till death do us part, and I have no plans on dying any time soon."
Silence.
"Your queen gave you an order. Obey it."
Azreaphel looked down at his queen, only to find a cold gaze, nothing compared to how he looked at her before.
"Good boy," Ishtar whispered, her voice a sultry purr, fingers coiling tighter in Azreaphel's hair.
His hands slid higher, bracing on her hips as he looked up at her, eyes burning with want and something deeper. "Let me be more," he breathed. "Let me be the one to worship you… They do not deserve you. None of them do. Let me be the one you favor…"
For a moment, her expression softened—almost pitying, almost amused. Her long fingers traced the sharp edge of his jaw.
"Az…" she murmured, voice rich and low. "I love my husband in my own way, I know he does too. And I love my son. All I need from you…" she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear, "Is for you to be my good boy. My special boy… who does exactly as he's told." A beat.
"Can you do that?"
Azreaphel swallowed, tension tight in his chest—then nodded. "Yes, my queen."
A dark smile curled across her lips. "Good." She leaned back, settling languidly against the pillows. "Now, get back to work."
Azreaphel smirked—then lowered himself eagerly between her thighs once more.
And like every other time before that, Azreaphel obeyed.