Silence.
The kind that follows when gods are too afraid to speak.The divine realm — once a place of crystalline beauty — lay in ruin. Broken halos drifted through a sky veiled in ash and fragments of shattered light. The once-golden clouds had turned gray, rippling under the weight of divine guilt.
At the center of it all, Arthur Virelith knelt within the crater left by the Seal of Eternity. His armor was cracked, his blade splintered — yet even kneeling, he radiated a quiet majesty. The shadows that once obeyed him lingered faintly, curling like dying embers.
The Goddess of Light approached first, her voice trembling. "It's over."
Arthur lifted his gaze, and for a heartbeat, she faltered. His eyes — cold silver, unblinking — reflected not rage, but disappointment.
"Over?" he repeated softly. "You think your betrayal marks an end?"
The God of Storms stepped forward, lightning still dancing along his shattered form. "You left us no choice. Your power was too great. Had we let you live, you would have unmade the world itself."
Arthur's voice carried through the silence like steel drawn from a scabbard.
"And yet, without me, you will unmake it far faster."
The God of Flame clenched his fists. "Blame your arrogance! You believed yourself above the pantheon. We merely restored balance!"
Arthur's head tilted slightly. "Balance," he echoed, his tone unreadable. "Balance forged through fear, sealed by envy. You mistake cowardice for order."
The light around him dimmed. The gods exchanged wary glances — even chained and weakened, his presence pressed upon them like the weight of eternity.
Then, the Goddess of Light raised her staff. "You will be sealed beyond time — forgotten by mortals, erased from the records of heaven. The name Arthur Virelith will fade from all existence."
Arthur's gaze steadied on her. "Then you have already lost."
The air stilled.
"Erase my name," he continued, his voice deepening, echoing across the broken skies. "Bury my deeds. Let my art rot in your false history. Yet know this — shadows do not die. They wait."
The seals tightened. Chains of light lanced through his body, pinning him to the ground. His form began to fracture, not like flesh, but like glass under divine flame.
Still, he did not scream. He simply closed his eyes, and for the first time, a faint smile touched his lips.
"Five thousand years," he murmured, his words becoming mist. "That is all the mercy I grant you."
The gods recoiled. The very air trembled, as if the world itself feared the weight of his vow.
Arthur's fading form began to rise, not in defiance, but in inevitability. The shadows at his feet surged once more, wrapping around his dissolving body like a cloak.
"When your temples turn to ash," he said, his voice resonating across eternity, "and your stars forget to shine—""—remember that the shadow you feared will be the last thing you see."
A deafening pulse followed — not light, not darkness, but something beyond both.
The heavens eclipsed.
A black sun rose over the divine realm, swallowing light and divinity alike. The gods screamed, shielding their eyes, but the eclipse burned into the fabric of existence — a mark that would never fade.
When it was over, Arthur Virelith was gone. Only his broken blade remained, half-buried in the scorched marble of the Celestial Hall.
The gods stood in silence, none daring to speak. The Goddess of Light finally whispered, her voice trembling, "Seal the record. None must know his name."
But even as they turned away, none noticed the faint thread of shadow that slithered into the mortal world — a single spark of divine essence, drifting downward like a dying star.
It fell for centuries, through layers of forgotten realms, until it touched earth — and found a newborn child beneath a silver moon, whose cry echoed like the whisper of old gods.
That night, the moon was eclipsed.
And thus began the age of silence — until the shadow chose to rise again.