Sol Aeternum Year 3.5MA, 78 U.S.R., 3,500,078 Years
Capital Cathedral of the Onyx Imperium — The Onyx Spire
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The night had fallen red again.
Through the high lattice of glass and obsidian, the capital breathed in silence — a city cast in the bloodlight of its eternal star. From the highest window of the Onyx Spire, the world below was little more than shadow and ember. The Red Sun hung on the horizon, a dying eye watching its empire dream.
In her chamber, Solia Ophanim, Arch-Throne of the Onyx Spire, stood still before the vast expanse of glass. Her reflection stared back — radiant and alien, framed by a sigil of light that turned behind her head in perpetual rotation. It moved like the slow grinding of celestial gears, each revolution shedding faint halos across the room. The glow touched the black marble floor and scattered into hundreds of mirrored fragments that blinked like distant stars.
Her chamber was vast, but quiet — no footsteps, no heartbeats, only the soft hum of energy coursing through the cathedral's stone. The air itself carried reverence, thick with incense that smoldered in silver braziers along the walls. The smoke coiled upward into shapes that never fully decided what they wanted to be — faces, wings, eyes — then faded.
For a long time, Ophanim watched the Red Sun's dim pulse through the haze. The capital stretched endlessly beneath her, a labyrinth of onyx domes and radiant bridges, all pulsing with faint sigils of devotion. Below, the faithful slept within the shadow of their cathedral, unaware that the eye of their god was about to open once more.
A tremor passed through the spire — subtle, like a heartbeat not her own. The glass trembled. The light shifted. And then came the voice.
It did not enter through the ear. It arrived.
A sound no mortal could make, and no mortal could survive to hear — yet Ophanim did not flinch. The Language of Thaumiel poured into her mind in a torrent of impossible shapes: light folding into shadow, silence into shrieks, harmony into formless hums. It was the voice of everything that had ever existed, and everything that never should.
The mortal mind would have shattered; the mortal soul would have burned away.
But she was not mortal.
Her apotheosis had stripped her of that fragility long ago. She bore two hearts now — one of crimson flesh beating in her chest, and another, divine and invisible, pulsing somewhere far beyond this realm. Each word from Thaumiel made both hearts answer in unison, mortal and eternal, harmonizing in pain and ecstasy.
She bowed deeply as the flood of meaning filled her. Words, images, entire histories formed and dissolved within her mind. The red glow outside flickered in response. Though she could see every shape the divine tongue painted, she did not speak, did not move, did not dare to breathe against it.
When the final resonance faded, she remained kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed. Her sigil spun slowly, dimming until only a faint shimmer of crimson remained.
Thaumiel — Father of Suns, Source of the Red Ichor, God of Sol Aeternum — had spoken.
And though His words were still burning behind her eyes, Ophanim kept them locked in silence.
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Then the bell rang.
A sound of titanic gravity filled the cathedral.
Once. Twice.
Thirteen times.
Each toll rolled through the walls like thunder underwater. The glass windows quivered with it. The city below stopped — all movement, all speech — as the sound traveled through every street and spire. It was the sound that marked divine summons. None were exempt from its call.
Bishops stirred from prayer, cardinals from meditation, clerics from study. The thirteen tolls were an ancient command known only to those who had sworn themselves to the Onyx Imperium. It meant the Arch-Throne had spoken with God.
And now all must gather.
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The Chapel
The main chapel of the Onyx Spire was a cavern of black marble and stained glass, shaped like an inverted star. The ceiling was lost in darkness, but from its unseen vaults hung a constellation of floating crystal orbs that burned with steady red light.
Rows of bishops and cardinals assembled, their robes whispering like a tide of ink. They moved in silence, eyes downcast, each step echoing faintly on the mirrored floor. At the center of the chapel stood the great altar, carved from a single block of obsidian that drank the light around it.
No one spoke. The Arch-Throne's summons was not to be questioned — only obeyed.
Among the gathered clergy, whispered prayers threaded through the silence. Many had served centuries within the spire without ever hearing that bell. Its call filled them with equal parts awe and dread.
What could have summoned the Arch-Throne herself from solitude?
What message could have passed from Thaumiel's tongue to mortal ears?
The questions burned unspoken as they waited.
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The great doors at the rear of the chapel opened.
A slow wave of crimson light spilled into the hall, cutting through the incense fog. The scent of divine ichor followed it, metallic and sweet.
Three figures entered — tall, radiant, unmistakable.
Solia Grigori, the Watcher Throne, strode first. Obsidian feathers lined their shoulders, each blade-like plume gleaming in the red glow. Their eyes were endless pools of glass, reflecting everything and nothing.
Beside them moved Solia Sphinx, the Riddle Throne. Her voice was never singular — when she breathed, three echoes followed, speaking in perfect harmony. Her hair shimmered like molten dusk, her presence both serene and disquieting.
Last came Solia Metatron, the Voice Throne, whose veins glowed faintly beneath his skin like lines of scripture. Every movement of his hands left golden traces in the air, words that faded as quickly as they formed.
The gathered clergy bowed as one. The air itself thickened — reverence so complete it bordered on terror.
Grigori was the first to speak, his tone calm, deliberate. "It has been long since we have heard the bell's full voice. I wonder why Ophanim calls for us now."
Sphinx turned her head, her threefold harmony answering in soft chorus. "Not since the herd of Sun-Beasts surged upon the northern frontier of the Imperium."
Metatron's gaze flickered with quiet fire. "Then perhaps this summons bears weight equal to that night — or greater still."
They took their places before the altar, the silence around them stretching thin. Time seemed suspended, the world waiting for its next command.
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The Arrival of the Arch-Throne
Minutes passed. Then half an hour. The air in the chapel grew heavy, almost suffocating in its stillness. Even the orbs of light seemed to dim.
And then — a sound.
Not from the entrance the bishops had used. Not from the grand doors of the Thrones.
But from behind the altar.
A seam split down the obsidian surface, glowing with red light. Slowly, the altar itself began to shift, stone sliding against stone as though awakened from eternal sleep. The floor beneath it opened, revealing a rising platform wrought in gold and black.
From its center, a throne ascended — towering, cold, alive.
Upon it sat Solia Ophanim.
Three attendants emerged with her, their faces veiled, their movements mechanical in grace. They guided the throne to its full height before stepping aside and fading into shadow.
The Arch-Throne's presence filled the space like a new sun.
Her sigil revolved lazily behind her head, each rotation shedding silent arcs of light that brushed across every bowed head in the chamber.
When she spoke, her voice carried neither haste nor emotion — only weight.
You have answered the call."
Her gaze swept across the chamber — over the clergy first, then to the Thrones who stood at her side. Her eyes were mirrors of molten glass, reflecting the light of the Red Sun far above the cathedral's crown.
No one dared breathe too loudly.
"The Dreamer stirs," she said. "The Sun-Which-Is-Not-A-Sun has breathed upon the Chain. His will has touched creation again."
'The God has spoken," she said quietly.
At those words, the chamber trembled. Even the air seemed to lean closer.
But Ophanim said no more.
The message of Thaumiel was not for them to hear — not yet. It lingered within her like a storm barely caged, its meaning too vast, too perilous to be uttered in mortal air.
It had to be deciphered first before being spread to the congregation, and the cathedral's of the other kingdoms.
She rose slightly from her throne and raised one hand.
The gesture was enough. The clergy bowed as one, heads touching the cold stone floor. The Thrones mirrored the motion with silent precision.
Only the hum of the cathedral remained.
When she finally spoke again, her tone softened, distant. "The night grows redder. Remain steadfast in faith. The light of the Sun is eternal, though its hue may darken."
Around her, the other Thrones moved — Grigori, Sphinx, and Metatron taking their places beside her. Together they formed the living pillars of the Onyx Spire, embodiments of Doctrine, Prophecy, and Revelation.
The hierarchy of Sol Aeternum stood complete once more.
And then they disappeared back through the same door the Arch-Throne herself had come through.
---
For a moment, there was stillness — that heavy, sacred pause that exists between thunder and rain.
The bishops and cardinals watched, hearts trembling, knowing they were witnessing the pulse of divinity itself. None yet knew what the Arch-Throne had heard, nor what storm awaited them beyond the cathedral walls.
But as the Red Sun's dim light filtered through the stained glass, the reflections upon the floor seemed to move of their own accord — like living shadows, twisting into shapes no man dared name.
And somewhere deep within the Onyx Spire, unseen and silent, something vast had begun to stir.