The realm of the Celestial Board dimmed as the lesser light faded. Lady Fate herself stood at the center of the round table, her presence both radiant and suffocating—divinity in its purest, most terrifying form.
The Eight Pillars of Fate surrounded her. No constellations. No lesser deities. Only those whose existence upheld the balance of Fate itself.
Kairos, the God of Origins, leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the marble table shaped from crystallized Time. "So we've reached this point again," he said, voice low and edged with weariness. "Another Deity rising beyond the limits of divinity. But never one like him."
Luminaria's eyes, under the pretense of calm thoughtfulness, flicked toward him. "You're speaking of the God of Destruction."
"Who else?" Kairos's gaze hardened. "A deity barely three cycles old, yet his power now distorts the very threads of existence. Do you realize what that means? He isn't just feeding on realms—he's consuming their essence. Their timelines, their purpose, their fated outcomes."
Causara, the Goddess of Consequence, crossed her legs smoothly, her eyes sharp and unreadable. "He's rewriting the causal order. Every conquest alters what should have been. The longer he continues, the more his existence becomes… self-justifying."
Chronos, the God of Time, exhaled slowly. "A paradox made flesh."
"Not flesh," Luminaria murmured. "A paradox made divine."
Lady Fate had remained silent until now, her expression unreadable—too calm, too composed, and that calm was what made every other god in the realm uneasy.
When she finally spoke, her tone stripped away all illusion of gentleness.
"His name is Erebus, and he was born of my shadow."
The room froze.
Even Kairos—first among the Pillars—stilled completely.
"You mean…"
"Yes," Fate continued, her voice steady. "He is not an aberration. He is my creation. My balance, as you are mine."
A silence fell that was not reverent, but dreadful.
Elizabeth, the Goddess of Earth and Fertility, looked up slowly. "Then he's… the counterpart of Fate?"
"He is the consequence of my benevolence," Fate said simply. "Where I preserve, he consumes. Where I nurture, he erases. But he has gone beyond what was intended. His hunger is not balance—it is defiance."
Chronos leaned back, his expression grim. "Defiance of Fate itself."
"Precisely," Fate replied. "If he continues, he will reach the point where he can bend the law of causality. When that happens, Fate will no longer be the arbiter of Creation—but of Destruction."
The implication was devastating.
If Fate lost her authority, every god, every world, every thread would unravel into chaos—because nothing would have meaning, direction, or consequence. All would be ruled by the Chaotic God himself—Erebus.
Kairos was the first to recover. "Then we stop him before he reaches that point. We gather the full power of the Eight and strike while the scales are still uneven."
"Strike?" Causara echoed. "You think this is a war of power, Kairos? Even if all eight of us confronted him now, we would risk unbalancing creation further. Every thread of destruction we cut becomes part of his domain. Every act of opposition feeds him."
"Then what do you suggest?" Elizabeth interjected, frustration flickering in her tone. "That we watch him consume everything while we deliberate?"
"Enough."
The word came softly from Lady Fate, but it fell like divine judgment.
All voices ceased.
The tension in the chamber grew thick, vibrating through the floor like restrained thunder. Lady Fate's presence seemed to expand—not in size, but in inevitability. The gods felt as though they were standing beneath the crushing weight of their own destinies.
"The moment he is allowed to decide Fate, the Realms will collapse into entropy. Do not think of this as the fall of gods—it will be the end of purpose itself. Even I will no longer exist as I am."
Her golden eyes flared—no anger, only absolute certainty.
"We cannot destroy him. Not yet. But we can limit his growth."
Chronos's voice came slow, analytical. "By sealing the flow of power from conquered realms?"
"Partly," Fate said. "But it will not be enough. His strength comes from choice—every soul that yields to him strengthens his dominion. Every Deity who fears him adds to his inevitability. He is becoming the very concept of unmaking."
Causara frowned. "So you propose faith itself must resist him."
"Faith," Fate replied softly, "and will."
The Goddess of Free Will, Seraphel, who had been silent until now, shifted her attention from the Loom's glow to Fate herself. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the weight of infinity's unknowns.
"Then my role is clear," Seraphel said. "You want me to sever his influence—to grant mortals and deities the right to choose beyond fear. To make their decisions their own, even under his shadow."
"Exactly," Fate replied. "You will become the unseen resistance. Your power will move silently—subtle, invasive, impossible to predict. Not even Erebus can destroy what refuses to obey his inevitability."
Kairos turned toward her, skeptical. "You understand what this means, Seraphel. You'll be directly challenging a being who thrives on opposition. You could vanish from existence before he even realizes you're a threat."
Seraphel smiled faintly. "Then I'll make sure he never knows."
A ripple of unease swept through the table.
Lady Fate's gaze passed briefly over Luminaria, then Elizabeth. Luminaria's calm remained unshaken, her expression as measured as ever—but her thoughts were elsewhere. This matter did not concern Atlas, and so, to her, it did not matter. She would play her part, nothing more.
Elizabeth, however, struggled to focus. Her eyes dimmed as her thoughts drifted to Atlas—Where is he? Is he safe?—her heart pounding with a desire she tried desperately to conceal under the mask of divinity.
Lady Fate's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as though reading every unspoken word, then she returned her focus to the table.
"You are the Pillars of Fate. The balance of all existence depends on your unity. Remember: every conflict between you strengthens him. Every division feeds his chaos."
Her voice dropped lower—calm, steady, yet enough to shake eternity itself.
"Do not let Fate become the prey."
And then, with a slow turn, she withdrew her hand from the center of the table. The Loom's hum deepened, and the realm dimmed again—signaling the end of the meeting.
No one dared to move until the last echo of her power faded.
Only silence remained, thick and heavy, as the gods of the Pillars of Fate contemplated the truth that chilled even divinity—
that the very one they called God of Destruction was born from Fate's own shadow.