The noise in the room slowly faded away, as if the air itself had decided to stop insisting.
One by one, the presences left. There were no arguments or long farewells. Only brief, understanding glances, and that silent discomfort shared by people who know when they are in the way and when what is at stake can no longer be resolved as a group.
The last to move was Elizabeth, who stepped out after a slight gesture from Adela, and an almost imperceptible push from her own will.
Adela stayed one second longer than necessary, looking at Lusian as if she wanted to make sure he was still there… and then she left too, though not entirely convinced.
When the natural door formed by living roots closed again, the room felt larger. Heavier.
Only Lusian, Kara… and the faint sound of the Mother Tree breathing beneath the mountain remained.
Kara did not move at first.
Her shoulders were rigid, tense as if something inside her was always ready to break outward. The golden light of the divine blessing moved across her skin in irregular pulses, not like a gift… but like a mark that did not belong to her.
—They can still track me… —she said at last, without raising her voice—. I'm a beacon to them.
She swallowed.
—I'm the point through which they'll find you again. You should… you should leave me at the base of the mountain.
The sentence hung between them.
Lusian stood up.
The movement was slow, measured, but even so it drew a brief pain from his side. It did not stop him. He walked toward her without hurry until the distance disappeared completely, and their shadows merged together over the living roots of the floor.
Kara did not step back… but she did not raise her eyes either.
Lusian extended a hand and gently but firmly lifted her chin, forcing her to face him.
—You are not a beacon, Kara —he said—. You are you.
His yellow eyes did not tremble. They were steady in a way that did not seem entirely human, but not completely alien either.
—That thing covering you can shine all it wants… but it does not decide who you are.
He tightened his fingers slightly, without force, but with clear intent.
—Your actions are yours. The blessing… is only a tool.
Kara blinked, as if the idea hurt more than she expected.
—Nothing is going to change between us.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was dense.
As if the entire room were waiting for something to break.
Kara lowered her gaze for a moment… and then the control slipped away from her.
The first sob came out muffled, broken, as if it had been trapped for far too long to emerge as a clean emotion. Then came another. And another.
It was not only fear. It was exhaustion. Guilt. And the terror of having been reduced to a tool without ever fully accepting it.
—What if they force me? —she whispered—. What if they use my body… again?
Lusian did not answer immediately.
He pulled her toward him.
Kara stayed stiff for a second… until her forehead touched his.
—Then I'll be there —Lusian finally said—. To stop it.
A brief pause.
He did not hesitate.
—I trust you.
Kara closed her eyes.
Her chest trembled with the air she drew in.
And for the first time in a long while, the weight of the blessing seemed a little less like hers.
Lusian rested his forehead against hers for another moment, as if sealing something that did not need words.
—That is something the gods do not understand —he murmured.
The fear in Kara's eyes did not disappear immediately.
It broke.
Like a tension that had been held for far too long.
And in its place remained something rawer. Harder to contain.
The golden light of the blessing over her skin faltered, as if something inside her had stopped obeying… out of rejection.
Kara said nothing else.
She did not need to.
She stepped closer.
Her arms wrapped around Lusian's neck with an urgency held back for far too long, as if the simple act of continuing to think might make her retreat again.
And then she kissed him.
It was not delicate.
It was a desperate gesture, almost violent in its honesty. A mixture of relief, restrained rage, and the need to cling to something that could not be dictated by anyone else.
Lusian did not pull away.
He held her.
The air in the room changed, not because of visible magic, but because of that strange sensation that something had settled into place, as if the world itself had decided not to interfere…
From the entrance, Aureus remained motionless.
His heavy breathing turned into a low, deep, ancient growl. It was neither approval nor surprise. It was warning. Pure instinct.
And even so, he did not move.
He did not enter.
He did not interrupt.
Between the roots of the Mother Tree, the silence became dense.
As if, for a moment, even she understood that she was not needed.
Outside the room, the world still existed.
The war was still waiting.
The gods were still watching.
But inside that room, something more basic had taken priority over everything else.
And then something minimal happened.
Almost imperceptible.
The golden mark on Kara's skin contracted once, like a spasm.
Far away, somewhere that did not entirely belong to the human world, something responded.
Dimming briefly… like a candle flickering before the wind.
Aureus, from the doorway, closed his eyes and let out a low, ancient growl: a silent warning that no one would interrupt that moment.
In the dimness between the roots of the Mother Tree, the whisper of darkness vanished completely.
Not because it had disappeared...
but because the heartbeat of two bodies claiming each other was more real, more urgent, more alive.
The gods might possess destiny.
But in that instant, Lusian and Kara possessed the present.
And while the outside world prepared to break apart, something else happened, invisible to the naked eye:
the divine mark on Kara's skin twisted once...
and, very far from there, in the celestial world, something went out.
A thread that had been taut since Kara's birth as a heroine dimmed without breaking completely, like a string cut inside a divine instrument. And when that happened, the Celestial World felt it.
The Celestial World was no longer the place of absolute peace it had once been.
The absence of Kheris and the death of Velyrion had left a vacuum of power that seeped into everything: the thrones, the choirs, the very light itself, which now flickered like a candle struggling against an invisible storm.
Then, a scream tore through the higher plane.
It was not a lament.
It was metallic rage.
Artureos, God of Strength, was not sitting upon his throne.
He stood before the Veil of Vision, a vast membrane of liquid light reflecting the mortal world. His hand —capable of pulverizing mountains— was buried in the exact emptiness where, until one eternal instant ago, Kara's spark had shone.
—He took her from me! —he roared.
The sound made the oceans of light beneath the divine firmament rise in waves hundreds of meters high—.
—That shadow bastard severed my thread! I can't feel her!
Seraphyne walked between the pillars, her celestial silk robe stained by an unnatural gray: the unmistakable trace of the Void leaking into realities where it did not belong.
—Do not shout, Artureos —she said with carefully rehearsed coldness—.
What Kheris did should not be possible. A human should not reach that level... not even while carrying divinity.
—Kara was MINE! —he interrupted, turning toward her with eyes wrapped in white fire—.
She is not dead. If she were, her essence would have returned to my throne to be recycled.
But it has not returned.
His voice lowered, dangerous.
—She is isolated.
He created a zone where my will cannot reach.
The shadows between the columns moved.
Lyria, Goddess of Wisdom, emerged from them. She no longer possessed her usual composure; her face showed a fatigue no god should ever know.
—It is worse than isolation —she said, pointing at the Veil—.
Look at the pattern.
The image distorted.
—Lusian did not erase the mark.
He rewrote it.
Artureos went still.
—The blessing you gave her —Lyria continued— is now being fed by his divinity.
Your power... is flowing through him.
An unnatural silence fell over the chamber.
It was not fear.
It was understanding.
The idea that a mortal —or worse: an heir of the Fallen— could hijack a blessing and make it his own was absolute heresy. A structural nightmare.
—And Amon? —Seraphyne asked, her voice tighter than she wished to admit—.
He is our last anchor.
—Amon is losing the men —Lyria replied—.
They saw Aurelius's explosion. They saw how their "god" used them as fuel.
Faith is evaporating.
The Veil trembled.
—And with every human who stops praying —she added—, our thrones become thinner.
Artureos struck the Veil.
The divine membrane cracked.
—Enough politics.
If the Heir can steal our Chosen from us, we will not wait for Amon to fail completely.
We will reduce the board.
His smile was brutal.
—If the mortal world must burn so that he has nothing left to rule... then so be it.
—Aeltharis will not allow it —Seraphyne warned—.
You know what happens when we interfere this much. We have already spent too much divinity... and gained no results.
Our existences are at the limit.
—Aeltharis is occupied —Artureos replied— trying to prevent Kheris's Throne from collapsing completely.
He leaned toward the Veil.
—I will make sure Kara and her "sovereign" understand something simple:
the price of freedom... is ash.
Lyria stepped back, horrified by a conclusion that had just fallen into place.
—We already chose another god of darkness because the Throne would not accept him...
Or is it that...?
She fell silent.
—No.
It cannot be.
Her voice trembled.
—Kheris left behind an heir.
And he did not do it after being expelled...
She looked toward the empty throne.
—He did it before.
The white marble of Kheris's Throne was stained by a single drop of black blood.
The gods did not see it.
But the fabric of the entire universe trembled.