Chapter 35 — Ashes Don't Stay Quiet
Scene 1 — Artemis
"What happened in there?"
My bow stayed half-drawn even though we were indoors.
Old habit. Old truth.
Huginn's private room above the bar was warded so heavily the air tasted like metal. Lightning runes hid in the wood grain like scars that never healed. Curtains shut out most of the city glow, but moonlight still found its way through the cracks—thin silver cuts across his desk and the paper he'd been killing for the last hour.
He didn't look up at me at first.
He just kept writing.
Not a Society report.
Not a guild briefing.
His own notes—messy, personal, angry. The kind you write when every official channel returns DENIED and the world refuses to explain itself.
"Nothing outside my knowledge," he said, voice flat.
Then his pen snapped.
He stared at the broken tip like it had betrayed him.
"…Or it shouldn't be."
His jaw worked once.
"FUCK!"
Huginn swept his arm across the desk.
Paper erupted into the air like startled birds—notes, sketches, half-drawn seals—slamming into the far wall and scattering over the floor. The wards flared, lightning crawling along the baseboards as if the room itself wanted to bite.
The storm in his aura matched the storm in my chest.
"My son came back wrong," I said, keeping my voice low because raising it wouldn't make me bigger in this room. "And you were with him."
Huginn's eyes snapped up—sharp, defensive—like the sentence was a blade.
"I wasn't with him when it hit," he said immediately. "That's the problem."
He bent, snatched a sheet from the floor, and slapped it onto the desk.
Ink.
A chant, written three different ways, then crossed out so violently the paper tore.
THE BLACK SUN. HORNLESS REAPER.
Under it, in smaller handwriting:
Not on the page. Not in the air. On reality. Like captions.
He shoved another page beside it—same phrase, different stroke, like a different hand had tried to claim it.
Then a third—same meaning, different arrangement.
Like the words were being argued over.
Not people arguing.
Pages.
Drafts.
Versions of reality trying to become the final copy.
"It wasn't a ritual," Huginn said, voice tightening. "Not the way you're thinking. It was a rewrite attempt."
"Rewrite?" I repeated.
Huginn jabbed his finger at the papers.
"These pages were at war," he said. "Competing drafts. Competing ownership. Like the universe took edits from different hands—and the ink started bleeding."
Lightning crawled across his knuckles like his body hated the idea.
"And then," he continued, and the room felt colder, "another page answered."
He pulled out a sheet he'd kept separate—creased like he'd unfolded it a hundred times, trying to convince himself he hadn't seen it.
Not because it was hidden.
Because it was final.
Copied with a steadier hand—like he hated that he remembered it perfectly:
ASURA KING. THE CRIMSON SUN.
My stomach twisted—not at the words themselves.
At the authority behind them.
Huginn's voice dropped.
"That's not a chant," he said. "That's a counter-edit. A correction stamped over a bad submission."
I forced my breath steady.
"So someone tried to write one thing…"
"And something higher rejected it," Huginn finished. "Cancelled it. Replaced it."
I stared at him. Then at the wards. Then at the scattered paper.
"Who else knows?" I demanded. "Who in the Society has seen this?"
Huginn's expression sharpened instantly—almost offended.
"No one," he snapped.
Then colder:
"Because I made sure of it."
He tapped the messy pile of notes.
"I verified the originals were the only copies," he said. "No transmission. No report chain. No archive. No 'oversight.' Nothing."
Lightning cracked once above his shoulder like punctuation.
"The moment I confirmed that," Huginn continued, "I burned them."
My throat went dry.
"Burned?"
"Gone," he said. "Ash. Static. Nothing for anyone to steal. Nothing for anyone to deny. Nothing for anyone to 'review' and decide to bury."
He leaned forward, eyes bright with something dangerously lucid.
"That's why I'm writing my notes," he said, tapping the pile. "These aren't the originals. These are the pattern. The behavior. The way the ink moved like it had intent."
His lips twitched—no humor, just bitterness.
"If the pages are at war," he muttered, "I'm not handing the enemy the original manuscript."
I tightened my grip on the bow until the wood creaked.
"He went with you," I said. "My son saw something that refuses to talk about."
Huginn's gaze didn't soften.
"Death isn't new to us," I continued. "But this is. And I can't let you keep acting like you can shoulder it alone."
"You want answers," he said.
"So do I."
"Then get me some fucking answers, Huginn," I snapped. "Or I'll start dragging this cult out myself."
I drew an arrow and loosed it—
Not at him.
At the wall beside him—fast enough to make the air crack.
Huginn caught it without looking, fingers closing around the shaft like the arrow had asked permission first.
The wards hummed, tasting violence.
"Teams are already moving," I said. "Every cult whisper in the states. Every basement prayer circle. Every idiot playing prophet."
"You'll start a war inside America," Huginn warned.
"I don't care," I answered. "Not if the alternative is letting them submit edits to my bloodline."
Silence stretched.
Then, quieter—like it cost him pride:
"I don't know how to burn a Name that's already been seen," Huginn admitted. "I only know how to burn the paper… and kill the hands holding the pen."
I turned away before my face betrayed anything.
"Then keep digging," I said. "Because I'm done being patient."
I left him there with lightning in his veins and ash in his truth—
the only surviving proof reduced to scribbles and patterns,
while the pages kept whispering like they were still fighting.
Scene 2 — Tasi
"Tasi… we need a meeting with Huginn. This is serious issues lately within the northern regions."
The man slid into the booth like he'd rehearsed the angle. Second-floor lounge. Private wards. Sound dampeners built into the walls. The kind of room where deals sounded like casual conversation and casual conversation sounded like threats.
This floor didn't belong to the Society.
It didn't belong to Baldur's "public order" either.
It belonged to the in-between.
Dark Guilds.
Cani-B territory.
Where the world pretended not to look.
"The Omar Gang issue, right?" I asked, leaning back with my drink in hand. "He no doubt wants to hear it if it's true—but what's your skin in the game, friend?"
At the word friend, two Cani-B men shifted.
Not stepping closer.
Just remembering they could.
The man's eyes flicked to them once—clean and controlled—then returned to me.
"Back off," I told my men without turning.
They did.
But they didn't leave. They just stopped creeping.
Because whatever this was, it smelled like S-class trouble.
"They're only one issue," the man said. "It's bigger than idiots poking at Odin diaries."
I watched his hands.
Liars fidget.
Desperate men grip the edge of the table like it's the last stable thing left.
He did the second.
"I would like to stay hidden," he said, "but I understand the need for honesty. My name's Jack. I've been working with them for quite a minute."
"With who?" I asked.
He didn't make me drag it out.
"Operations we thought were certified," Jack said. "Society-certified. Just… not public."
"Until?" I prompted, pouring him a drink.
I signaled again and my men drifted farther out—distance, not absence.
Craig stayed at the bar, drinking like he wasn't listening.
He was listening.
Jack took a long sip like he was a fish desperate for water.
"Baldur formally declared divorce," Jack said. "Once you guys started to pull back, I thought it was weird we never got called back. We handled security. Counter-terror. Society missions nobody wanted their fingerprints on."
His knuckles whitened around the glass.
"Except now… we're meeting and bringing those same people into our guilds."
I didn't react.
My face didn't move.
But the room felt one degree colder.
"They claim it's to help the local area," Jack continued. "Integration. Stability. I've only seen us lose more and more."
He swallowed, then looked straight at me.
"I had to send my family to Baldur's territory when I made it here," he admitted. "You know as well as I do… that's practically a divorce when you're on this side."
Pride died first.
Survival spoke next.
I slid the bottle toward him.
"Yeah," I said. "That's the word of manhood, isn't it. You protect them first."
Jack's shoulders loosened like he'd been holding a breath for weeks.
"You'll get your meeting," I continued. "And I'll see what strings I can pull."
Hope sharpened in his eyes.
"We aren't that heartless on this side of reality," I added. "But you do three things for me."
Jack nodded immediately.
"First: you don't harm innocent people," I said. "Not for leverage. Not for panic. Not for 'mission necessity.'"
"Agreed."
"Second: Huginn verifies your story and your past," I said. "You're staying under Dark Guild hospitality until he does."
Jack hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
"Third," I said, leaning in just enough for him to feel what this place was built for, "if you're lying… I'll personally hand you back to the people you're scared of."
Jack's throat worked.
But he didn't flinch.
"I'm not lying," he said.
Good.
Because if he was telling the truth—
then the "divorce" wasn't just politics.
It was a corridor being opened.
And something ugly was learning to walk through it wearing a clean suit.
Scene 3 — Tenebris
"So you've returned, Star That Fell."
Moonlight spilled over the Tower balcony like cold wine. Above—clouds and constellations that didn't belong to Earth's sky. Below—the lattice: worlds like beads on invisible thread, each humming with its own laws.
I poured heavenly dew into a second cup without looking back.
Gaia took it from my hand like the concept of taking belonged to her.
"Fine wine," she said. "You always bring the good stuff when you're about to make bad decisions."
"I already made them," I replied.
She laughed softly and stared out over the edge, toward the place Earth still slept behind a half-dead barrier.
"Yes," I said. "It's been close to four years already."
Four years.
A blink in the Tower.
A lifetime down below.
"The time to place Earth within the Tower is coming," I continued. "Once I pull the remains of the barrier down… humanity will have to stand for themselves."
I didn't look at her when I said it.
Because part of me still wanted someone to argue.
Instead, Gaia only sipped.
"I'll have to enter hibernation once Earth re-enters the Sea," she said. "Until you establish all the divine families and a true pantheon."
Her eyes slid toward me.
"Even as one who's seen enough to be classified as an Elder Emperor… you still go step by step."
Her hand moved.
A fist-sized crystal appeared above her palm—Earth-green, dense, alive. It didn't glow like a spell.
It breathed like a planet deciding whether to forgive you.
She tossed it.
I caught it—and the weight settled into my bones.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
Gaia smirked like I'd told a joke.
"I am the True Daughter," she said. "MutaRex? Or the rest of those bitches? They'd kill for this, so take it."
Her gaze flicked to my hair.
"And those rings littering your head," she added. "I can see my mark. Which items and souls my marks have been placed on."
I didn't deny it.
Denial was for mortals.
Gaia took my bottle.
Just took it.
Then she vanished, leaving the crystal behind like a verdict.
Her last words lingered in the air after she was gone.
"Eventually you'll have to leave humanity to its fate," the silence reminded me. "And await them at the top."
I stared at the empty space where she had stood.
Then I exhaled.
"That was my only bottle until I go back," I muttered.
The Tower didn't care.
The lattice didn't care.
Only outcomes mattered here.
I reached into the shadows and pulled out another bottle—lesser quality, cheaper burn.
"Guess it's time," I said to nobody, "to send the hare on resource gathering trips."
Earth would be slotted into the Tower.
The barrier would come down.
And when the world finally looked up
i