The sound of boots echoed sharply through the marble corridor, each step cutting the silence like a blade through parchment. The light from celestial braziers flickered along the obsidian walls, dancing across etched murals of victories, betrayals, and ascensions. It was a hall meant only for gods and judgment.
But today, it bore the footsteps of a man.
Zevarin Sullivan—swordsman, tactician, and the only human ever to sit on the Celestial Council—walked alone toward the Sanctum of Oradyn. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow reluctant to let go. Thirteen thrones awaited him at the far end, each occupied by a planetary god, resplendent and divine.
He didn't bow.
The gods watched in silence. Even the most prideful among them—like Vorrak, Warden of the Second Planet—kept his tongue still. They had seen what Zevarin had done. What he had survived.
And they had come, each of them, to witness his resignation.
He stopped at the foot of the dais. "My time is over. I step down as leader of the Council."
No protest. No questions. Only a divine hush.
Then Zevarin spoke again. "But by right of leadership, I claim my final wish."
Thirteen gods stiffened. A final wish, once granted, could not be undone—except by unanimous objection.
"I ask only this," he said. "If one named Draven Sitquill Sullivan ever seeks the aid of this Council, you will give it. Without condition, without delay. No matter what he asks."
Gasps broke the quiet. Vorrak rose from his seat.
"No," he said coldly. "A child of yours? This reeks of favoritism."
"Then oppose it," Zevarin said, voice like steel. "Cast your vote."
One by one, the gods remained seated.
Even Vorrak did not speak again.
The wish was sealed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Far from the sanctums of the gods, deep within the stone citadel of the Oni homeworld, Vaelora Sitquill gritted her teeth as the contractions surged again.
Only a handful of trusted attendants remained inside the dim chamber. Cloaked, masked, loyal.
And Zevarin stood among them—silent, but present.
With one final cry, the child came into the world.
And with him, a roar of aura.
It wasn't a sound. It was pressure. Raw, ancestral power that surged outward like a silent explosion.
Every Oni across the planet stopped.
Some knelt. Others collapsed. The aura struck nerves they didn't know they had. It wasn't just felt—it was remembered, like a bloodline waking up.
The newborn screamed, and the citadel trembled.
Vaelora held him close, her jaw clenched.
One of the attendants whispered, voice shaking: "His aura… it is that of the Oni Firstbloods. Of kings."
She didn't hesitate.
"He is not like a king," she said. "He is a king. Born of blade and blood. Crowned in silence."
Zevarin stepped forward, eyes narrowed.
The infant fell quiet.
They named him:
Draven Sitquill Sullivan.
No record would mark the birth.
No god would know the truth.
Not yet.
But the galaxy already felt the ripple.
And the Prophecy had begun.