Inside the Aurelian Spire, Kaelen felt their arrival long before the gates groaned open. Through the [Dread Sovereign] aura, he felt the Silver Flame—it was a hot, sterile energy that tasted like bleach and old law.
Kaelen was coiled atop the Obsidian Dais, his thirty-foot frame draped elegantly across the black stone. He was no longer the desperate snake hiding in the moss. He was the center of a world.
Prime, now wearing a mantle of Shadow-Silk over his Aurelian-Steel, stood to his right. Commander Valen, looking younger and sharper due to the constant mana-nourishment of the city, stood to his left.
"The Holy See has arrived," Kaelen's voice vibrated through the floorboards. "They bring 'Peace' in their left hand and the 'Sun-Strike' coordinates in their right."
"Shall I mobilize the Shadow-Wraiths, my Lord?" Prime hissed. "We can sever their souls before they reach the inner sanctum."
"No," Kaelen replied, a cold smirk curling his draconic lips. "Let them see. Let them see the humans who smile in my shadow. Let them see the goblins who build our roads. I want the Grand Inquisitor to realize that he isn't here to purge a monster. He's here to bargain with a God."
The heavy doors of the audience hall swung open.
Helos and his Paladins marched in, their silver armor clashing with the violet twilight of the room. The Inquisitor stopped at the exact edge of Kaelen's [Dread Sovereign] aura. He felt the weight of it—the crushing despair that had broken General Kastor—but Helos merely raised a silver pendant, and a soft, shielding light pushed the darkness back.
"Kaelen of Aethelgard," Helos spoke, his voice echoing with the authority of the Heavens. "Or should I say, Subject 001 of the Sunken Vaults?"
Kaelen reared up, his obsidian wings unfurling to their full fifty-foot span, casting the entire hall into a flickering, violet-tinted eclipse.
"Titles are for those who still fear the System, Inquisitor," Kaelen rumbled. "You have traveled far to see a dead man. Tell me, does the Holy See find my new skin... offensive?"
"We find your existence a theological error," Helos replied calmly. "But the Pope is a practical man. He recognizes that you have stabilized the southern mana-leak. He is willing to offer you a Sanctioned Sovereignty."
Kaelen leaned down, his golden eyes inches from the Inquisitor's. "And the price of this 'Sanction'?"
Helos didn't blink. "You will dismantle the Siphon Blocks. You will allow the Church to install 'Sun-Altars' in every village. And you will provide the Holy See with ten liters of your Abyssal Blood every month for 'study.'"
The room went deathly silent. Prime's spear hummed with a violent, violet light. Valen's hand went to his sword.
Kaelen let out a low, subsonic rumble—a laugh that made the silver armor of the Paladins vibrate.
"Ten liters of my blood," Kaelen echoed. "You want to bottle my essence to see if you can replicate my evolution for your own 'Saints.' You don't want peace, Helos. You want a recipe."
Kaelen straightened up, his obsidian horns glowing.
"Return to your Pope. Tell him the Abyssal Dragon-Naga does not bleed for anyone. If he wants my blood, he is welcome to come and try to take it. But remind him... the last 'Sun' that tried to shine in my house is currently pulling a plow in a grain field."
Helos narrowed his eyes. The light of the Silver Flame flared. "Then you have chosen the path of the heretic. The Holy See will not send an envoy next time. We will send the Seventh Crusade."
"I look forward to it," Kaelen hissed. "My Forge is running low on high-tier steel.