# Chapter Three
In the crystalline halls of the Celestial Sanctum, seventeen beings of immense power sat in perfect circle, radiating confusion with the intensity of miniature suns.
Seraphiel, First Among the Heavenly Host, shifted her six wings with visible agitation. Golden light rippled through the council chamber as she spoke, her voice harmonizing with itself across multiple octaves.
"The urgency grows stronger," she said, and the other deities nodded in unison. "Each day the compulsion intensifies. We *must* act. We must choose. But..."
"But we don't know why," finished Malphas, his shadow-wreathed form coiling restlessly in his allocated space. The demonic prince's usual sardonic composure had been strained for months by the inexplicable divine imperative pressing against all their minds. "It's maddening. I've felt nothing like this since—"
"Since we first ascended," interrupted Lumina, Goddess of Knowledge and patron of the Royal Institute. Her thousand eyes blinked in sequence, each one reflecting a different aspect of mortal scholarship. "But that was different. We knew what we were building then. We understood the purpose."
Korrath the Forge-Father, deity of creation and artifice, hammered his fist against the crystal table. Sparks of raw creation-energy scattered like stars. "Purpose be damned! The compulsion is *there*. I can feel it in my bones—if I had bones. Something comes. Something that requires a champion."
"But what manner of champion?" asked Thalia, her voice like wind through silver bells. The goddess of harmony and balance had been pacing for the better part of an hour, her normally serene demeanor cracked by uncertainty. "Warrior? Scholar? Saint? The divine imperative gives us no guidance beyond the need itself."
Vasreth, the Chronicler of Fates, spoke without lifting his head from the great tome that chronicled all mortal destinies. "The girl shows promise. Lydia Ashworth. Third year, Applied Thaumic Engineering. Natural affinity for binding work, methodical mind, strong moral foundation."
"Yes, yes, we all feel drawn to her," Seraphiel said with impatience that would have shocked her mortal worshippers. "But drawn for *what*? What threat approaches that requires binding expertise specifically? What enemy comes that needs such... such *precision* in its opposition?"
The silence that followed was pregnant with divine frustration.
Nex, Lord of Endings, finally spoke from his corner of the circle, his voice like the whisper of final breaths. "I have consulted the death-echoes of the far future. They show... disturbance. Reality itself twisted into patterns that hurt to perceive. But the source remains hidden, as if veiled by something older than our sight."
"Older than us?" Malphas leaned forward, genuine concern replacing his usual swagger. "That should be impossible. We claimed dominion over this reality when we ascended. What could predate our authority?"
Lumina's thousand eyes suddenly focused on a single point in space, her expression shifting to something approaching alarm. "Wait. The texts in my deepest archives... there are references. Fragments. Mentions of... of the Time Before Time. The First Architects. But I assumed they were mythology, creation metaphors penned by early theologians who—"
"Who might have been recording actual history," Korrath finished grimly. "History we've forgotten. Or never knew in the first place."
The council chamber erupted into overlapping voices as seventeen deities all began speaking at once. Divine languages crashed against each other like waves against stone, creating harmonics that made reality itself tremble.
Seraphiel's voice cut through the chaos with the authority of eons. "SILENCE."
The word rang like a struck bell, and immediate quiet fell over the chamber.
"Speculation serves no purpose," she continued, though her own voice carried an undertone of worry. "We have felt the compulsion. We have identified a suitable candidate. The logical course is to proceed with her preparation and trust that understanding will follow action."
"Trust," Vasreth murmured, not looking up from his tome. "Such a mortal concept. Yet here we sit, as confused as any of our petitioners."
Nex stirred again, his presence like a cold wind. "There is... something else. In the death-echoes, I glimpsed fragments of a name. Not spoken, but... carved into the foundations of reality itself. A signature left by whoever shaped the original framework we built upon."
"And?" Malphas prompted impatiently.
"I couldn't read it clearly. But it felt... familiar. As if I should know it. As if we all should know it." Nex's form wavered uncertainly. "It reminded me of the early days, when we were still learning our roles. When sometimes we would find things already in place that we hadn't put there. Structures, bindings, fundamental laws that seemed to guide our own development."
The silence returned, heavier this time.
Lumina spoke carefully, as if afraid her words might take physical form. "Are you suggesting that our ascension was... guided? That someone or something shaped our rise to power?"
"I'm suggesting," Nex replied, "that perhaps we built our pantheon on foundations we didn't lay. And now something that remembers those foundations is stirring."
Seraphiel's wings folded tight against her luminous form. For the first time in centuries, the First Among the Host felt genuinely uncertain. The divine compulsion to choose a champion burned in her consciousness like a beacon, but its purpose remained maddeningly opaque.
"We proceed with the Ashworth girl," she decided finally. "Accelerate her preparation. If we cannot understand the threat, we must trust in our instincts. The urgency suggests we have little time for extended deliberation."
Around the circle, seventeen deities nodded agreement, but none felt satisfied by the decision. They were used to omniscience, to understanding that transcended mortal comprehension. This... this felt like stumbling blind through possibilities too vast to grasp.
As the council dispersed, each returning to their respective domains, none noticed the way shadows lingered in the corners of the chamber. None perceived the ancient presence that had observed their entire discussion with something that might have been amusement.
After all, it had been so very long since the Precursors had felt the sweet confusion of beings who thought themselves supreme, only to discover they were merely the latest iteration in a cycle far older than their comprehension.
The real architects were waking up. And they remembered exactly who had stolen their canvas.