In the days that followed the Reckoning Assembly, the sanctuary grew quieter—but not calmer.
Voices dropped to whispers.
Hands that once reached for unity now folded in caution.
Not out of fear.
But division.
Liora had offered the world a question.
And now the world was preparing to answer it.
The vote would take place in ten days.
Ten days to decide whether the being forming beneath the ruins of the Aether Sanctum would be granted existence… or denied it.
Not with weapons.
With consensus.
It was unprecedented.
A vote not on policy.
Not on borders.
But on birth.
On what it meant to let something become divine.
And each nation, tribe, or independent commune who had participated in the Assembly had a single voice—cast through their representative.
There would be no ruling class.
No weighted scales.
Only one vote per people.
And for once, the gods would not cast theirs.
Liora did not campaign.
She didn't speak at rallies.
Didn't promise futures.
She simply walked the sanctuary.
Spoke with her people.
Listened.
But she was not unaware of the tension building beneath the surface.
Vaerion stood at the edge of the southern orchard, watching sparring guardians strike each other in silence.
"Something's off," he said.
Kelvir, standing nearby, nodded. "They're training harder. Not because they're preparing for war… but because they think we're not."
Vaerion grimaced. "They don't trust peace anymore."
"Peace is harder to defend than a wall," Kelvir muttered. "And more fragile."
They looked up as Liora approached.
"I heard," she said. "The southern barracks have doubled their drills."
Kelvir crossed his arms. "They're afraid we're too patient."
Liora didn't argue.
Because she knew he was right.
Later that night, Liora returned to the Spiral Garden.
She found the light-born twin waiting beneath the flowering boughs, legs folded, hair catching starlight.
She had returned without fanfare, slipping in hours earlier, unnoticed by most.
Liora knelt beside her.
"I saw cities that burn their gods before naming them," the girl whispered. "I saw a boy in the eastern wastes carve your face into obsidian. I saw a library where monks argued over which version of your words were real."
Liora said nothing.
The girl looked at her.
"They don't want an answer," she said. "They want to never stop asking."
Liora placed a hand on her daughter's cheek.
"That's how it starts," she replied. "Not with obedience. But with curiosity."
In the central council chamber, debates began.
Small ones at first.
Then larger.
Should the divine successor be monitored if allowed to live?
Should it be bound by mortal ethics?
Could it learn?
Would it become something else?
Could anyone control what it would become?
Nyra, speaking on behalf of the neutral cities, asked the most pointed question yet:
"What if the vote says yes—and it becomes what we feared?"
Liora answered honestly.
"Then it reflects who we are."
By the fifth day, votes had begun to solidify.
Some nations declared early.
The Hollow-Kings of the south said no — "divinity belongs to history."
The Skyborne Oracles said yes — "we cannot halt evolution."
The Wyrmkin abstained — "the world has enough fire in it."
The Dissonant angels split.
Some for.
Some against.
And the council… waited.
On the sixth day, the dark twin returned.
She entered the sanctuary with sand on her boots, her shadow curled tighter than before, her eyes heavier.
But she smiled when she saw her sister.
"I saw cities who only want a god they can hate," she said.
Her twin replied, "And I saw cities who only want a god they can love."
They sat beside Liora.
And the three were quiet.
Because love and hate were closer than the world liked to admit.
That evening, Liora received a visitor she did not expect.
The Dreamer.
But not alone.
At his side walked a woman whose presence made the very air lean away — cloaked in gray and gold, her skin pale as fog, her eyes layered like mirrors.
Liora knew her instantly.
Amerys.
Once a divine judge.
Now exiled.
Now something else.
"You're here for the vote," Liora said.
Amerys tilted her head. "I'm here for what comes after it."
"Do you expect war?"
"No," she said.
"I expect disappointment."
Liora led them to the edge of the sanctuary, where the new Shard-tree had begun to bloom.
Its flowers were two-toned now—half gold, half black.
Balanced.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
"The world has changed," Liora said.
"Not enough," Amerys replied.
They stood in silence.
Then the Dreamer asked the question no one else had dared:
"What if the vote is split?"
Liora looked toward the horizon.
Then said:
"Then we don't decide for the world."
"We let it coexist with its conflict."
That night, a child was born in the sanctuary.
Not to power.
Not to prophecy.
Just to parents who loved her.
She had no markings.
No omens.
But when she cried, the vines of the Shard-tree shivered.
And when she opened her eyes…
They were both light and shadow.
Liora held her once.
Just once.
And wept.
Because the world had already decided more than it knew.