A simple gesture.
A small one.
But to the hall…
it rang like a bell.
"Yes," Shanian said. "For she does not abandon those she loves."
Tavran's eyes glistened.
For a heartbeat, a fragile peace settled.
But it lasted only that heartbeat.
Shanian turned, cloak of entropy falling behind him like unraveling night.
"I go to her," he murmured. "My godchild suffers. She should not be alone."
With every step he took, the world dimmed—
not dying,
but remembering what it once was.
Tables wilted and regrew in his wake, caught between ages.
Light strained to stay alive.
Time shivered, reshaping itself.
And then—
he vanished into the far corridors, a trail of entropy fading like a sigh.
Tavran bowed his head.
Rivax placed a hand on his brother's back.
Dheas stepped closer, silent and steady.
Qaritas watched all of it.
The guilt.
The fear.
The fragile hope.
It knotted inside him—tight, burning, confused.
Eon whispered against his ribs, amused:
"See how they unravel? Fragile things, even gods. What will become of them when you begin to break?"
Qaritas clenched his jaw.
His awakening pulsed beneath his skin—
and the hall seemed to shift around him in anticipation.
The hall had only begun to recover from Shanian's leaving—
colors returning, tables knitting back into youth, the lanterns regaining their warmth—
when the air changed again.
Not dimming.
Not aging.
Not breaking.
Ascending.
A low hum rippled through the obsidian floor.
Soft at first—like the murmur of distant prayer—
then rising, layer upon layer, until the sound became a chord of creation itself.
Qaritas froze mid-step.
Even Eon stilled.
"What—" Qaritas whispered.
Eon hissed in recognition.
"Oh. Them."
The golden ribs of the ceiling brightened, veins of silver pulsing as though the hall itself felt the shift.
Students sat straighter.
Mentors lifted their heads.
Servants of smoke bowed low, dissolving into reverent curls.
A deep bell tolled.
Then another.
Then nine at once, their tones weaving into a harmony felt more in bone than ear.
Rivax whispered, eyes wide,
"They're coming…"
Dheas swallowed.
"The Nine."
The rulers of the Afterlife Realms.
Children of Cree and Hydeius—
born in the cradle between heaven's breath and underworld flame.
Qaritas's skin prickled.
Even Zcain rose from his throne, head lowered in solemn greeting.
That was how serious this was.
Light bent.
Shadows knelt.
The golden haze at the end of the hall thickened into swirling radiance and pitch-black smoke intertwined.
A voice—many voices—echoed:
"Make way for the Thrones."
The doors did not open.
They parted on their own.
And the Nine stepped through.
Ezien — Heaven's Crown
He entered first—
tall, radiant, clad in robes woven from starlight and the soft dawn hues of newborn worlds.
A halo of shifting constellations spun slowly behind his head, and every being who looked upon him felt their chest lighten—
as though forgiven before they even sinned.
Ataka — Underworld's Flame
Beside him, Ataka strode like a walking inferno.
Horns of obsidian curled back from his skull, dripping embers that dissolved before touching the floor.
His armor glowed with the heat of collapsed suns.
Yet his presence was not cruel—
but protective, like a flame that guarded the lost.
Syion — Keeper of Eternal Gates
Tall, silent, with chains that held keys to every afterlife door.
Time bent around him.
Every step he took landed half a second too late—
a being unbound by sequence.
Mzius — Herald of the Dead
Cloaked in white feathers that shed souls like sparks of light.
His eyes saw through life and afterlife at once.
Every breath he exhaled carried the whisper of a billion departed.
Yanah — Purifier of Sins
A woman of flowing silver water.
Her hair drifted in currents no one else could feel.
Every step she took left the floor cleansed, glowing with crystalline purity.
Irtec — Warden of Purgatory
Chains wrapped his body like a cocoon.
Some rusted.
Some glowing hot.
Some whispering in forgotten tongues.
His gaze weighed the worth of every soul in the room.
Tyuri — Judge of All That Lives and Dies
Their eyes were scales.
Literally scales.
One gold. One obsidian.
Shifting, balancing, measuring.
Everyone looked away when Tyuri's gaze swept over them.
Daryon — Master of Demons
Massive. Horned.
A mane of black fire trailing down his back.
Every movement made the floor crackle with infernal energy.
Rivax gasped before shouting,
"FATHER!"
But Daryon did not yet break formation.
Zarayne — Queen of Angels
Last entered Zarayne—
wings formed of refracted light, blades of heaven hidden within her feathers.
A presence both gentle and devastating.
A hymn made flesh.
The Nine came to a stop.
And the hall… bowed.
Every mentor.
Every student.
Every servant.
Even the lanterns dimmed in reverence.
Qaritas felt something ancient coil inside his chest.
Not Eon—
but an instinct older than his body.
A recognition of power.
Eon whispered, almost grudgingly:
"Children of Balance. Hated their mother. Feared their father. Terrifying little monsters."
Qaritas barely heard him.
Because Cree and Hydeius had risen from their seats—
their faces cracking into smiles warmer than any afterlife throne.
"MY CHILDREN!" Hydeius roared.
And suddenly—
The Nine broke formation.
Daryon sprinted.
Zarayne blurred with angelic speed.
Ataka flew like a comet.
Ezien laughed like creation itself.
They didn't approach reverently.
They crashed into their parents with all the force of eternity.
A swirling storm of wings and fire and chains and laughter.
Hydeius—massive, terrifying Hydeius—lifted four of them at once.
Cree wept bright golden tears as their children surrounded their, touching her hands, their face, their cheeks.
Cree choked on a laugh:
"You're all so TALL now!"
Ataka snorted. "Mother, we've been taller than you for ten thousand years."
"Silence," they said, pulling him into another hug.
Daryon finally turned—
eyes locking onto Rivax.
His youngest son.
Rivax's voice cracked:
"Father?"
Daryon didn't walk.
He vanished from sight—
and reappeared with his arms wrapped around Rivax, lifting him entirely off the ground.
"MY SON!"
Rivax's legs kicked helplessly.
Dheas laughed and slapped Daryon's arm.
Komus shouted, "PUT HIM DOWN BEFORE HE DIES!"
Daryon ignored everyone.
"My boy," he rumbled, squeezing Rivax until his ribs creaked. "You have grown so STRONG!"
"Father—I—can't—breathe—"
"Nonsense! Demons don't need breath."
"T-then I'm not a demon then—!"
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Zcain even cracked a smile.
Qaritas stood frozen.
Watching gods embrace.
Watching family reunite after centuries.
Watching light and flame and judgment intermingle like living myth.
He didn't belong here.
He didn't understand this world.
He didn't even understand himself.
Ayla watched him from the corner of the room—
guilt etched deep into her features.
But Qaritas…
could not look at her.
Not now.
Not after everything.
Rivax rubbed his ribs, wheezing softly.
Daryon chuckled at the sight, then brushed a rough thumb under his son's eye, clearing a tear Rivax hadn't realized had fallen.
"My boy," Daryon murmured, voice trembling like a fault line. "Let me look at you."
Rivax lifted his head.
Daryon's smile cracked wide—
pride spilling from him in waves of heat—
and then—
it faded.
Softly. Slowly. Painfully.
He exhaled, gaze wandering past Rivax's shoulder toward the great entrance doors.
"She should be here," he whispered.
Rivax stilled.
His throat tightened.
Cree placed a gentle hand on Daryon's arm—her golden glow softening the edges of his grief.
"She wished to come," Cree said quietly. "But the Afterlife Throne binds her still. The dead called for her judgment."
Daryon nodded once, jaw clenched.
He lifted his hand, as if reaching toward someone only he could see.
Rivax swallowed. "When… when will she be able to visit?"
Daryon's fire dimmed again.
"When the weight of souls allows it," he murmured. "She… carries much, Rivax."
A beat.
"And she misses you. Fiercely."
Rivax lowered his eyes.
"I miss her too," he whispered.
The hall softened around them—
lanterns dimming to a respectful glow,
embers drifting like quiet snowfall.
Then Daryon took a breath that shook like a cracked mountain.
"And what of your brother?"
The world cooled.
Cree's glow faltered.
Hydeius bowed his head.
Even the Nine grew still.
Rivax's hands curled into trembling fists.
He didn't answer.
Daryon did not force him.
He simply pulled his son closer, one massive hand cradling the back of Rivax's head like he was still a child.
"I felt his light fade," Daryon whispered.
"No father forgets that sensation."
Rivax's voice broke.
"I… I tried to protect him. I tried—"
"I know," Daryon said softly, pressing his forehead to Rivax's.
" Aarion walked a path none his age should have known. His state is not your failure. It was the cruelty of the world he served."
Tears slipped down Rivax's cheeks—hot enough to hiss against Daryon's skin.
Daryon didn't wipe them away.
"Your brother loves you," he said. "To the end. We just need to wait."
Rivax choked on a sob.
Daryon held him until the trembling eased.
The heat between father and son rippled outwards, shifting the glow across the hall.
Qaritas felt it then—how grief moved differently in gods.
Not loud. Not desperate.
Just heavy enough to bend the world.
Rivax wiped his eyes.
"Uncle Zcain," he murmured, voice raw. "Thank you."
Zcain placed a hand on Rivax's shoulder, grounding him with steady warmth.
"You are family," he said. "Your pain is mine."
Eon whispered inside Qaritas's skull:
"Look at them. All mourning their precious dead. How touching. How temporary."
Qaritas ignored him—
but the words lodged painfully deep.
As if foreshadowing a grief of his own.
Komus noticed him first.
While the hall roared with reunions and divine embraces, Qaritas sat alone at the far end of the table—
hands trembling, chest rising too fast, the onset of purple flame licking up his arms without his awareness.
His jaw clenched so hard the bone creaked.
Komus approached cautiously, plate still in his hands, his mismatched eyes flicking to Qaritas's burning aura.
"Hey," Komus said, voice careful, soft, as though addressing a wounded creature. "You… doing alright?"
Qaritas didn't look up.
The flames around him brightened.
Komus tried again, a nervous laugh slipping out:
"You look like you're about to explode. Or implode. Or do both at once. I'm honestly not sure which would be worse—"
"I said I'm fine."
Qaritas's voice cracked like breaking stone.
Komus froze.
His expression shifted—hurt first, then swallowed quickly behind an easy smile that was anything but easy.
"Bro," Komus murmured, hand half-extended, "damn."
The attempt at humor didn't reach his eyes.
Before he could say more, an ember of Qaritas's purple fire popped sharply between them, the air warping with heat.
Komus stepped back slowly.
"Alright," he whispered. "I'll… give you space."
He turned to leave—but paused, eyes softening just slightly.
"If you burn down the hall," Komus said gently, "just… don't do it alone."
Then he walked away.
Qaritas stared at the floor, chest heaving.
Eon purred inside him.
"They are drifting from you already. Good. Pain makes room for me."
Qaritas shut his eyes.
That only made the darkness louder.
A sudden shift of power rippled across the golden expanse of the hall.
Not hostile—
not violent—
but ancient.
Daryon and Zcain stepped toward each other, the crowd parting instinctively, as if two continents were closing the distance between them.
No throne commanded respect like this.
No decree could create it.
This was recognition
between titans.
Two beings who had shaped worlds
with their wrath
and saved them
with their wounds.
Daryon's fire dimmed from crimson to a deep volcanic glow—respect offered in heat.
Zcain's shadows tightened around him, sin folding like a cloak returned to its proper shape.
They extended their arms—
and clasped forearms in the old way.
The way warriors of the First Ages did:
the grip that said I stand beside you, even in the end.
The impact thundered through the air, shaking lanterns overhead.
Daryon's lips curved into a sharp, genuine smile.
"I owe your line another debt," he said. His voice carried effortlessly, a rumble that touched bone. "My parents live because of your interference."
Zcain's brow furrowed. "Your parents survived by their own strength."
Daryon huffed. "They survived because you tore Eirisa's claws from their throats. I remember every moment of that war. You diverted half her army alone. Do not diminish your role."
Zcain's gaze softened—
just barely—
but enough to fracture his mask.
"I only wish I had done more."
"You did enough," Daryon replied.
"No warrior saves every life. But you saved the ones who mattered most to me."
Zcain absorbed that silently.
To him, the praise was heavier than any weapon.
Eon whispered, amused:
"Look at Sin mourning his own goodness. Pathetic—and fascinating."
Zcain's eyes flicked briefly toward Qaritas's end of the hall.
Concern flickered.
He felt the rising storm before anyone else.
The moment the handshake ended—
Qaritas broke.
His breath hitched, shoulders folding inward.
The purple fire crawling over his skin erupted in jagged bursts, flaring like the cracking edges of a dying star.
He dropped to his knees.
The sound echoed through the hall like a blade striking marble.
Conversation died instantly.
Divine heads turned.
Cree froze mid-laugh.
Hydeius stood upright so fast his chair scraped the floor.
Komus spun around, eyes widening in alarm.
Qaritas pressed his palms to the stone, trembling violently.
"Stop…" he whispered.
His voice was raw, thin, fractured at the edges.
The flames rose higher.
"Stop talking…
stop looking…
just— stop—"
Pain carved lines through his skin, glowing bright enough to illuminate the underside of the tables. His awakening writhed beneath, destabilizing, turning inward, devouring.
He tried to speak Xheavaend's name.
"T—the A—Apo—"
His throat seized.
His tongue burned.
Something unseen clamped around his voice like a collar of barbed glass.
"The… apoc—
apoca—
Apocalypse—"
He couldn't say her name.
Not even in thought.
His eyes snapped to Zcain, wild with panic.
"What did you DO to me?!"
The flames surged outward in a ring—
not hurting anyone,
but knocking the breath out of every mortal at the table.
A thunderous crack resounded overhead as lantern chains strained, metal bending from sheer pressure.
Shanian stood instantly.
Rivax reached toward him.
Daryon's fire roared in response.
Cree covered her mouth, eyes glassy with fear.
Ayla—
Ayla looked like someone had carved her heart out while she watched.
She whispered, trembling,
"Qaritas… please don't—"
He jerked away from her voice as though struck.
Eon's whisper slithered through him, savoring every fracture:
"Yes… yes, let it break you.
Let it burn.
This is the shape you were always meant to wear."
Qaritas's scream ripped free—
not loud
but devastating.
A whisper of agony that rattled the lamps
and froze the Nine
and made shadows recoil from his body.
Zcain moved.
One step.
Another.
Light and sin circled him like twin storms.
"Qaritas," he said, low, firm—
the tone that could steady armies.
"Look at me."
Qaritas lifted his head, eyes glowing with amethyst fire, tears steaming down his cheeks.
Everything hurt—
inside, outside, through every timeline of himself.
"Please…" Qaritas gasped.
Before he could finish—
Eon whispered, thrilled:
"Now this…
this is interesting."