O portal se abriu com violência, como se a própria estrutura do mundo tivesse sido dilacerada por mãos divinas. Um turbilhão de luz dourada e prateada girou diante deles, pulsando como um coração cósmico.
Khaled estendeu a mão e, com um gesto quase casual, arrancou o sexto fragmento do chão enegrecido. A joia brilhou com um brilho intenso, resistindo por um instante — como se relutasse em despertar —, mas o mago não era mais apenas um conjurador. Era um receptáculo. Um catalisador. E quando o fragmento tocou sua pele, foi absorvido com um som abafado, quase orgânico.
A terra tremeu. Um tremor percorreu a cratera, subindo as montanhas e alcançando os céus.
— Morvath... — Kinlly sussurrou, sem fôlego.
Era como se o coração do devorador de mundos tivesse pulsado mais uma vez, mesmo que por apenas um instante. Mas a ameaça estava contida. O poder de Khaled, agora quase completo, superava a sombra ancestral que outrora quase devorara tudo.
Liandre permaneceu em pé, com o corpo coberto de hematomas e feridas profundas. Kinlly, ao lado dele, mancava — mas seu olhar permanecia aguçado. Ambos ainda respiravam graças às poções de Jean, enquanto ela avançava entre os sobreviventes, derramando magia e bálsamo sem parar.
Tilka sentou-se no chão, com o braço ferido enfaixado às pressas. Apesar do corte, ela sorriu ao ver Jean.
— Eu sei que você gosta de me ver no chão, mas desta vez não faz parte do feitiço — ela murmurou, e a feiticeira revirou os olhos, limpando o sangue seco do rosto.
Khaled respirava pesadamente. A magia cobrava seu preço a cada passo, a cada batida do coração. Mesmo assim, ele se mantinha firme. O poder dos dois últimos fragmentos fortalecia seu corpo — mas ele sabia que o tempo era curto. Algo ainda precisava ser feito.
E o momento não esperaria.
Sem dizer uma palavra, o mago caminhou em direção ao portal. A luz refletia em sua pele pálida, em suas vestes esfarrapadas, em seus olhos — não mais inteiramente humanos.
Liandre e Kinlly seguiram logo atrás, sem hesitar. Jean ajudou Tilka a se levantar e, com um último olhar para a cratera devastada, eles atravessaram juntos.
Eles eram cinco.
Cinco almas.
Quando seus corpos desapareceram na luz cintilante, o silêncio caiu sobre o campo de batalha. E o portal, ainda girando, carregou-os para além do mundo conhecido...
—para o reino dos deuses.
Ali jazia uma vasta plataforma suspensa no céu, como se a própria cidade de Vasbalión tivesse sido erguida nas asas do vento. Ao seu redor, o mundo se dissolvia em um grande vazio etéreo — um oceano infinito de nuvens espessas e rodopiantes, rasgadas por rajadas douradas e relâmpagos azulados que riscavam o firmamento como véus de energia viva. Criaturas aladas de todas as formas e tamanhos — algumas assemelhando-se a pássaros, outras formadas de pura luz ou sombra — voavam entre espirais de névoa, circulando as torres flutuantes.
A plataforma abaixo deles era plana e colossal, feita de ladrilhos quadrados formando um mosaico intrincado, como um tabuleiro de xadrez. As cores alternavam-se em tons profundos de ônix, jade, safira e âmbar, brilhando sob uma luz suave que parecia emanar do próprio céu. Cada passo ecoava suavemente, como se o chão reconhecesse aqueles que ousavam pisar nele.
Ao redor da plataforma, sete ilhas flutuavam equidistantes, cada uma irradiando a essência de um deus. Pareciam pequenos mundos à deriva, conectados por pontes mágicas ou caminhos de pura energia:
— A Ilha da Força , feita de pedra bruta e montanhas em chamas, onde colossos de pedra marchavam em silêncio eterno.
— A Ilha da Justiça , banhada por um brilho branco e dourado, cercada por colunas suspensas e cortes celestiais, onde olhos etéreos observavam tudo.
— A Ilha da Magia , um redemoinho de luzes flutuantes e runas, com torres girando sobre si mesmas e livros voadores sussurrando feitiços antigos.
— A Ilha da Natureza , envolta em florestas exuberantes, rios suspensos e raízes que se estendiam até o abismo, guardada por feras com olhos sábios e conhecedores.
— A Ilha de Fogo , uma caldeira viva, onde rios de lava esculpiam símbolos arcanos e chamas dançavam em formas quase humanas.
— A Ilha dos Caminhos , uma rede mutável de estradas que se reorganizam constantemente, com portais que levam a destinos desconhecidos.
— A Ilha da Morte , envolta em névoa roxa e cinzas flutuantes, onde estátuas vigiavam tumbas antigas e uma lua escura pairava eternamente acima.
No centro da plataforma, um círculo vazio sugeria que algo estava prestes a começar — um ritual, um acerto de contas, uma escolha final. Vasbalión, empoleirado entre mundos, parecia respirar com os deuses.
Jean, Tilka, Kinlly e Liandre ficaram pasmos — para dizer o mínimo. As palavras eram insuficientes para descrever o que estava diante deles. Nenhuma mente moldada pelo reino mortal poderia compreender completamente — muito menos descrever — a vastidão que se estendia em todas as direções.
O reino dos deuses não era um lugar. Era um estado.
The colors obeyed no common logic. The sky was not blue, nor purple, nor golden — it was all of them at once, pulsing in shades that resonated deep within the soul. Towers floated in the air like ethereal crystals, and impossible gardens bloomed above suspended rivers, where swam creatures that could never exist in the lower world. Some had wings made of light. Others seemed born from music itself.
Liandre widened his eyes like a child before a tale. Even having once been to Encanthia with Khaled — the peak of his geographical daring — he had never dreamed he could cross the boundaries of Elderim. And now, there he stood. On sacred ground. Or perhaps it wasn't ground at all. The floor responded to emotion, shifting with the feelings of those who walked upon it.
Kinlly, in contrast, stood paralyzed. The young rogue, raised on the docks of Roughshell Island, who until recently knew only the scent of fish and cheap rum, now found himself in a place where even the air could sing. His wide eyes couldn't settle on anything for long. Everything changed. Everything was grand. Everything was too much.
Khaled watched them with a mixture of pride and caution. He knew wonder could consume fragile minds like a fever. He had seen it happen before. So he shielded his companions with a gentle mental charm — a breeze that kept them anchored to their sense of self.
Tilka remained silent — which, in itself, was already a rare occurrence. Her eyes were glassy. She didn't cry from sadness, but from a deep creative impotence. She felt, in her core, that no song would ever be enough to capture the majesty of that place. Every note she rehearsed in her mind felt smaller, ridiculous, in the face of the living eternity pulsing around them. But she was beginning to think: maybe the answer wasn't in grandeur... but in simplicity.
Jean, on the other hand, had far more pragmatic concerns. She looked discreetly to the skies, to the suspended lakes, to the translucent beings gliding through the winds. Her sharp mind was already doing what it did best: cataloguing. Did that creature have eyes too large to be non-sentient? And the one flying on petal-like wings — was it aware, or merely instinctive? Jean was meticulous. Ethical, to the edge of obsession. She only consumed what could be clearly defined as non-thinking. And now, before the unknowable, she found herself wondering whether it was a sin to study the divine realm with a... scientific appetite.
— This is... too beautiful, — Liandre murmured, his voice caught in his throat.
— And dangerous, — Khaled added, not turning his face.
The gods were watching. They had yet to speak, but they were there. In every sound, in every reflection. The judgment would not delay. And Khaled knew: stepping through the portal wasn't the end of the journey. It was the beginning of the true trial.
Khaled took a step forward, his eyes burning with determination despite the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. He had crossed deserts, battlefields, and the very depths of his soul to be here. And now, standing before the radiant plane where the laws of reality bowed to divine presence, his voice rang out, steady and filled with purpose.
— I request an audience with the gods.
The silence that followed seemed to hold time itself.
— Tiphos, lord of strength and war, who sees the world as an eternal battlefield and honors the courage of those who fight with valor...
The ground trembled faintly, like a thunderclap trapped in the earth's chest.
— Farandhur, god of magic and secrets, who knows every hidden veil between worlds, whose silence weighs more than a thousand words...
The air shimmered, and ancient runes danced in the void like forgotten memories.
— Kylathe, goddess of nature and the cycle of life, who breathes in the wind, blossoms in spring, and weeps with the falling leaves...
A soft scent of moss and dew filled the space, and flowers bloomed beneath Tilka's feet.
— Thar'Mog, lord of fire and destruction, whose fury is the spark that devours and renews, turning all to ash so it may begin anew...
A searing heat swept through the golden pillars, as though a volcano breathed nearby.
— Velinn, goddess of death and eternal slumber, who welcomes souls in the silence of the end and guards them until all fades away...
A subtle shadow fell over the five of them, like the gentle extinguishing of a candle.
— Dereth, god of paths and choices, who walks with travelers, laughs with fools, and weeps with the lost...
A golden trail unfurled on the ground before them, leading to everything and nothing.
Then Khaled took a deep breath. And when he spoke the final name, his voice trembled — not from fear, but from a restrained fury, a wound still raw:
— And at last... her.
A heavy silence followed, as if the realm itself hesitated to listen.
— Everyn. Goddess of Justice and Order. She who interfered in the mortal realm, who played with my life and that of my friends. She for whom so many died believing they were doing what was right — and died deceived.
His eyes shimmered with tears that refused to fall. His body trembled under the weight he carried.
— I call upon you not as a subject. Not as a servant. But as one who has known chaos up close, who has been broken and rebuilt, and who now demands answers. Who demands truth.
The divine plane flickered. And then, one by one, they began to answer.
— That is a grave accusation, elf. —
The voice thundered like a storm in a silent valley. Tiphos appeared before the five, and the presence of the god of strength and war was like the weight of a world. A titanic orc, his shoulders broad as fortress walls, his muscles carved like living stone. His long white hair was tied into a single braid, adorned with rings of ancient iron. His protruding tusks, bared in a constant half-snarl, spoke of his innate brutality. His face was a tapestry of scars — marks of eras of battle that bards barely dared to sing of. And yet, there was a restrained solemnity in his eyes, as though the war within him had stilled, if only for now.
Khaled did not flinch.
— There is no room for lies here, — he said firmly. His voice, though weary, stood like a torch against the storm.
Before silence could return, a new presence made itself felt. Soft, almost imperceptible — like a choice whispered to the wind.
Dereth did not appear — he arrived, as if he had always been there. A halfling small in stature, yet whose majesty radiated through gesture and intent. His bare feet touched the divine ground as if dancing upon possibilities. Ancient tattoos coiled over his body up to his bare chest, telling stories of journeys, meetings, and intertwined destinies. His eyes shimmered with a thousand untaken paths, and his short, tousled hair bloomed — quite literally — with tiny living flowers sprouting like thoughts.
— If you're aware of that, — he said, with a serene smile — then we can listen. After all... it is your choice to be here.
The atmosphere around them shifted with the summons. The plane of the gods, once vast and resplendent, seemed to contract, focusing on that moment. The audience was forming — not a mortal trial, but a clash of truths too ancient to remain unspoken.
Then, the others came.
Thar'Mog burst forth like a volcanic eruption. A colossus with scarlet skin, eyes of molten magma, and robes that seemed woven from living embers. On his chest, glowing runes pulsed like burning hearts. When he spoke, his voice rang like hot metal plunged into cold water.
— Bold. But boldness... is what separates gods from worms.
Farandhur appeared like a veil of smoke and stars. His body was made of possibilities, his eyes mirrors reflecting not the present, but all the selves Khaled had ever been — the timid apprentice, the warrior of words, the traitor, and the savior. He said nothing at first. He only looked. And that was enough.
Kylathe arrived like the blooming of an entire season. A woman with moss-toned skin, sap-like eyes, and hair as long as vines dancing in the breeze. Each of her steps birthed luminous flowers, and wherever she walked, the air was perfumed with new life. She laid a hand on Tilka's shoulder as she passed, and the bard's wound seemed to breathe.
Velinn did not walk — she hovered, a presence of absence. A black mantle flowed around a slender, unmoving body. Instead of a face, a pale mask with a neutral expression. Around her, time moved slower, as if eternal sleep followed her wherever she went. Even without speaking, her presence chilled everyone to the core.
And then… Everyn.
The goddess of Justice and Order emerged like the dawn of judgment. Her white armor did not reflect light — it was light. She walked among the others with the bearing of one who had been worshipped, feared, and forsaken. Her golden eyes, like blades forged from oaths, fixed on Khaled. She seemed less a being and more a concept — firm, inevitable, and unbreakable. No longer the weary old woman. But a fierce, unyielding warrior. Still blind. Still just.
— Khaled... — she said, her voice sweet as a whisper, but carrying the weight of ages. — Are you truly willing to judge me? To judge a goddess?
— This is not judgment. This is truth, — the mage replied, lifting what strength remained within him. — We were pawns in your game, deceived, manipulated. Even those who believed until the end died beneath a mistake you caused. There is no justice if it stands above truth.
Everyn closed her eyes. A flicker of pain crossed her flawless face. And for a moment, all could feel — she carried guilt.
Dereth then sat upon a stone that sprung forth like a fork in the path. He snapped his fingers, and before him appeared a map that folded and unfolded on its own.
— Then let us hear your story, Khaled. All your truths. All your sins. All the consequences.
Tiphos clenched his fists and crossed his arms.
— And if you are right... the judgment will not fall on her alone. It will fall upon us all.
Khaled held Farandhur's gaze for a few moments, knowing the god bore guilt as well — knowing that stripping him of his magic had been the doing of one made of pure arcane essence. He gave a faint smile, tinged with sorrow and regret.
— I will not speak — but show. Many know how speech can deceive, how words can be twisted. But memories... are undeniable.
Khaled touched his own temple. Letting the memories unfold before them all. Everyn merely watched, patiently awaiting her moment, as if confident she could justify her actions through ends that, in her eyes, had warranted the means.
Khaled raised his hands before the gods and his companions, allowing the gentle light of truth to envelop his body. The sacred plane reverberated with his presence, and in that moment, he stripped himself of all vanity, of any mask — he stood bare before truth, pain, and love. Without shame. Without fear.
— If you allow me, I will tell my journey. Not as a hero, nor a villain... but as someone who dared to desire more.
His gaze met Liandre's for a fleeting second — there stood the man who had stood beside him in silence, who had listened to his doubts on cold nights, and who had shared his heart.
And then, before the gods, Khaled revealed everything.
Memories danced like living mist: fragmented scenes of youth lost in the libraries of forgotten towers, whispered words exchanged with Farandhur, the god of magic, in encounters that felt like dreams — broken promises, dangerous confessions. He showed the weight of ambition, the yearning for ascension, and how that longing had corroded him from within.
But there was more. Something none of them expected.
He opened the memories contained in the fragment Gilgrim had swallowed — memories that burned with the soul of the dwarf. And with that, he shared a pain that was not his alone.
— These memories are not yours, mage. — Everyn's voice cut sharp as a blade of crystal. The goddess, ethereal and distant, tried to halt the flow of memory.
Khaled did not retreat. His voice was serene, almost tender.
— But they are part of the power I carry. And if no other god opposes, I ask that I be allowed to show what still pulses within this fragment. What she left behind.
The gods looked at one another, but none raised a word. One by one, they nodded. And the veil was lifted.
The images appeared fractured, like shattered glass — intimate moments between Gilgrim and Everyn, whispered conversations teetering between faith and despair. The dwarf pleading for guidance, the goddess subtly interfering, shaping the fate of the company with unseen hands. Small manipulations. A whisper here, a vision there. Veiled promises, convictions planted in the paladin's heart.
Even without access to all, Khaled showed enough.
Scenes flashed: Gilgrim with tear-filled eyes, praying alone. The goddess watching from afar. Blessings that came only when it best suited her will — and not justice.
Everyn remained still. Her eyes glinted like liquid silver, but her expression was a mask of calm.
Kinlly, Tilka, Jean, and Liandre watched in silence. And in that moment, even within such a grand divine plane, they all seemed as human as the mage before them.
It was the beginning of a judgment. But more than that: it was the unveiling of truths the gods themselves would rather forget.
— And you, Farandhur? — Tiphus roared, his voice thundering across the divine hall, laced with ancestral wrath. — Were you part of this as well? Manipulated by your sister, perhaps, but still complicit.
Farandhur raised his gaze, heavy with sorrow. His deep eyes reflected a betrayal felt. This was a wound that reached the very core of his magical essence.
— I thought Khaled was a usurper, — he murmured calmly, though his voice trembled with disillusion. — I was led to believe so by Everyn, who swore to protect justice. I feel deceived... betrayed.
Dereth, god of paths, sighed deeply, the glow of his tattoos pulsing slowly, as if lamenting the inevitable collision between fate and choice.
— It was still your decision, brother. — His shake of the head was heavy with grief. — There are rules. There are punishments. There are consequences we cannot ignore, nor avoid.
Then, like a flame rising against a storm, Everyn took the floor, her figure now lit by a sublime and impassive aura. All eyes turned to her, the goddess of Justice and Order, dominating the space with her imposing presence.
— You must understand why I acted as I did. — Her voice echoed firm, full of conviction. — I am the silent watcher of sentient creatures. The humanoids are under my care, and preserving the natural order was my duty.
She paused, her eyes glimmering with both pain and resolve.
— Who else but me could stop a mortal — someone whose power threatened even our indifferent brother — from seeking to sit among us? One who wished to corrupt the sacred balance and replace us one by one to 'save' humanity? How could I allow such a sin to take root in our divine plane? While you all remained silent in the face of such affront.
The hall fell into a heavy silence.
— And you believe it just, then, to strip a mortal of his power and imprison him for two hundred years in a tower? — Tiphus roared again, his fury undiminished, as though this offense cut to his very core.
Everyn lifted her chin, facing him with unflinching eyes.
— If my destiny was that prison, why did I intervene? When we became gods, we made a vow, we created an order — a choice to preserve the delicate balance. If the elf succeeded, who would we be to stop him? They must walk their own paths.
Then Dereth, the small and majestic god of paths and choices, glided forward, his body etched in glowing tattoos beneath the soft light, his voice calm yet piercing:
— You violated something sacred, sister. Free will. The right of each being to choose their fate. You, who honor order, forgot the value of the path.
The hall seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Everyn's answer, while Khaled's fate and the balance of the worlds teetered on an invisible edge.
— He had the strength to overcome his trials, even as a mortal, Everyn. — Tiphus said with thunder in his voice. — Do you fear him?
— There is no reason to fear mortal beings, — Everyn declared, raising her voice with the implacable authority of one who claims to own the scales. — No matter what is said or thought. I merely fulfilled my nature as a goddess: justice. Therefore, I cannot be judged guilty for that. I am the supreme judge. I am the scale of justice.
The silence that followed was dense, heavy. Until, as serene as the breeze before a storm, Kylathe rose, her presence calm but brimming with restrained power ready to bloom in fury.
— No longer, sister. — Her voice was both a whisper and a warning. — I vote for divine laws and rules to prevail. You broke the cycle of life. You condemned the humanoids to an eternal existence, a gift that is not yours to give.
Velinn, goddess of death, advanced slowly, each step a solemn echo. Her gaze was cold, fatal.
— You granted what is mine to govern. — With a slow gesture, she drew forth delicate glowing threads — the lives of Gilgrim, Laurent, and Randyr. — You dared to interfere... and worse, you took lives in your design.
Farandhur rose suddenly, his voice brimming with censure.
— You lied. — And, extending his hand toward Khaled, he returned the penultimate fragment, a soft light touching the mage's chest, filling the void within him. Khaled simply bowed his head in silent thanks.
— There is nothing left to discuss. — Tiphus, now erupting in a voice of thunder, rose imposingly. — Everyn shall be banished and exiled.
Without a word, Thar'Mog, god of fire and destruction, raised his hand. From the floor, searing chains emerged, quickly binding Everyn's arms. She tried to resist, but the force of divine restraints was absolute.
All the gods united in silent accord, and the ancient, sacred, and immutable laws began to shine before the astonished eyes of mortals. An intense radiance enveloped the very fabric of the universe.
Everyn was stripped of her divine station, torn from the pedestal that upheld her power. Her once-radiant figure began to lose its celestial essence. Slowly, her form became human, ordinary — someone who walks the earth, now condemned to wander the mortal planes for more than a thousand years.
Her form flickered, like a fleeting light dissolving into the air, until at last she vanished completely, leaving only the void where a goddess once stood.
Jean, Liandre, Tilka, and Kinlly remained still, trapped in the most absolute silence. Shock held them, so intense they could barely organize a single clear thought. It was as if they had lived an impossible dream — one told only once and never repeated, for fear of sounding mad.
But there they were, before the impossible, awed and speechless.
— Do you wish to ascend? — the voice echoed like thunder cleaving the silence, reverberating throughout the celestial hall, aimed directly at Khaled. Tiphus extended his axe toward the elf — You already possess nearly all your power. Only one step remains, and you shall stand among the immortal gods. The final fragment.