Far above the mortal plane, beyond the veil of clouds and stars, lies the Celestial Citadel—a palace of impossible scale, its spires sculpted from pure light, suspended in the endless ether. Here, where time moves like a slow river, the gods gathered.
Seated around the Haloed Circle, a table forged from the first dawn, were beings of such radiance that mortals could not look upon them without their eyes searing to ash. Yet now, their divine faces were grim.
Aurelion's absence at the Circle—the void where his blazing form had once sat—hung over them all like a specter. His skull now served as a decoration in the Dread Sovereign's hall, a truth they dared not speak aloud.
At the head of the Circle, Lythara, Goddess of Light, her golden hair spilling like liquid sun, broke the silence. "We can no longer ignore him. The mortal scourge has slain dragons, demons, krakens, and gods. He unravels the weave of the mortal realm. Even Kael," her gaze flicked toward the God of Death, "cannot restrain his defilements."
Kael, cloaked in an eternal shroud, his skeletal face obscured beneath his cowl, spoke in a voice like dry earth crumbling. "His necromancy is not of my teaching. The sword he wields… it was not forged in any forge I know. It hungers in ways no divine relic should."
Across the table, Thyros, God of Storms, slammed his fist, thunder echoing across the heavens. "Then we strike! Gather our legions, descend upon his black citadel, and scour his name from the stones. Let the Deadlands burn with celestial fire."
"Strike, yes," murmured Selene, Goddess of Shadows, lounging with feline grace, her eyes twin pools of starlight. "But understand this—Vorath has not merely killed gods. He has consumed them. Aurelion's spark lingers within him. If we confront him recklessly, more of us may join the skulls at his feet."
Murmurs spread like wildfire across the Circle. The gods, for all their pride, felt it—the fear.
Finally, Lythara rose, her light dimming as her resolve hardened. "Then we conspire. We will not face him as we are. We will bind him. Starve him of his power. Sever the Deadlands from the mortal plane. Only then can we destroy him."
Kael tilted his head. "And if he resists?"
Lythara's eyes, once radiant, burned cold. "Then we bring every legion, every shard of divine might, and tear his soul from existence."
Far below, in the Citadel of Nytheris, Vorath's silver eyes opened.
He had felt it—the stirrings of the heavens, the ripple of their plotting. The whispers in Nox Obscura grew sharp, hissing warnings in a language no living tongue could shape.
Vorath stood from his throne. Serikar and Velira knelt instantly, awaiting his command.
"They move," Vorath said, his voice calm, deliberate. "The cowards in the sky seek to choke the Deadlands. They would sever this world to starve me."
Serikar's hollow helm tilted. "Shall we raise the legions, master? Call forth the dead hosts?"
Vorath's gaze swept the hall, where shadows shifted unnaturally. "Raise all of them. The fallen armies of Kaerath, the drowned legions of Valriss, the ash-marked dead of Pyrrhos's pyres. And more. I will need the Ebon Colossus."
Velira's smile widened, her black eyes glittering. "Awakening that thing will tear the veil, my lord. The gods will not tolerate such a blasphemy."
Vorath turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Good. Let them rage."
From the depths of Nytheris came a sound—not a roar, but a rumble, as if the earth itself groaned. Sigils carved into the citadel's foundations began to pulse, one by one, like the beats of a colossal heart.
As his lieutenants departed to carry out his will, Vorath stepped onto the balcony overlooking the Deadlands. Black storms churned over the horizon, unnatural, twisting with faint golden light—the first sign of the gods' arrival.
Vorath lifted Nox Obscura. Its blade drank the lightning, the mist curling into a coiling serpent around his arm. His silver eyes narrowed.
"So," he murmured to the heavens. "You finally dare."
The wind carried his words across the blasted plains, where countless skeletal hands were clawing their way from the earth, answering his call.
Above, in the storm, the first lances of divine light speared downward, igniting the Deadlands in unholy brilliance.
The war had begun.