The world had grown too quiet.
Atlas felt it before he saw it—the shift in the wind, the metallic taste of divine magic rippling through the air, the way the scorched stones under his boots trembled as if bracing for something older than the sky.
The seven Thrones descended in formation above the shattered capital, their halos burning with the holy severity of executioners.
The ruined city of Berkiumhum, still coughing ash from the war that nearly killed it, seemed to curl inward beneath the oppressive light.
Aurora whispered beside him, voice thin.
"They came to pass judgment… not negotiate."
Claire's sword clicked free of its sheath.
"Let them try."
Gabriel's wings flared, feathers crackling with voltage.
"They're stronger than the Inquisitors. Do not underestimate—"
Light exploded downward before he finished.
A pillar of golden fire crashed into the courtyard like a divine hammer.
Mortals screamed.
Demons dropped to their knees, instincts screaming submission.
