Where the lake once existed, now there was only devastation.
The earth was broken, sunken, stripped of meaning. There was no moisture in the air, no traces of scattered energy, no signs of an explosion or a struggle. There were no traces of resistance. This was not a field of ruins... it was a negation.
The lake had disappeared, and with it, something deeper.
That was what paralyzed the Celestial Court.
Not the destruction.
Not the loss.
But the fact that the world did not resist.
The lake was not just a body of water. It was a pillar, an essential anchor that maintained the planet's balance, a source of primordial energy linked to the very flow of its existence. Since the beginning of records, no technique, no art, no known power had been able to erase it without provoking a violent reaction from the world.
But the world did not scream.
It did not defend itself.
It did not break.
It accepted.
The elders felt it immediately. It was not a deduction or an analysis: it was a certainty that slipped into their consciousness like a chill. The balance of the planet had been readjusted, slowly and docilely, as if the absence had been authorized.
The void was not being corrected.
There was no attempt at restoration.
Then the thought arose that no one wanted to voice, but that everyone shared:
The world bowed to the loss.
While the elders and members of higher status remained motionless, trapped in that understanding, the lower-ranking members began to grow restless. The murmur grew, charged with nervousness and a need for control.
"This must be reported."
"The most powerful organization in the solar system must intervene."
"There must be punishment."
The voices overlapped, growing more tense, until a single word fell like a sentence.
"Silence."
The voice of the great elder was not raised, but its resonance swept through the hall like invisible pressure. The air vibrated. The sacred symbols trembled. The faces of those who had been speaking turned pale instantly.
"No one is going to propose punishment," he said slowly.
That was not power... that was authority.
A shudder ran through the Court.
In the eyes of the great elder, something unbecoming of his rank was exposed
for an instant.
Fear.
The council leader's daughter stepped forward, furious. That refusal was inconceivable. She had never been contradicted. Her will had always been law, protected by the Celestial Court. Everyone feared her. Everyone yielded.
But now...
Now the Court, the very source of her pride, did not dare to confront that existence.
"Are we going to allow this?" she snapped, her voice trembling with anger.
"We are a branch of the most powerful organization in the solar system.
Are we going to allow someone to come and do whatever they want on our planet?
Between the two great elders, the most powerful of the three watched in silence. His gaze was cold, laden with disdain. He thought she had been raised among privileges, never understanding the true weight of power.
When the young woman insisted again on demanding punishment, the great elder was swept away by a memory impossible to ignore.
Daverion.
Absolute authority manifesting itself effortlessly.
Destruction executed without emphasis.
The silent march, without looking back.
Without challenge.
Without justification.
Without interest.
As if what had happened did not deserve any attention.
As if questioning it were, in itself, a mistake.
While the great elder remained trapped in that thought and the leader's daughter continued to demand retribution, one voice rose above all others.
The voice of the leader of the Celestial Court.
He did not need to assert himself.
It spread.
The impact was immediate. Legs trembled. Breathing became heavy. Fear, forgotten by many for ages, returned with a vengeance.
The leader's daughter turned pale. Her eyes opened wide with pure terror. Her body did not respond and she fell to the ground, overcome by the weight of the truth.
"A sovereign," said the leader.
The silence was absolute.
Then, from the sacred courtyards of the Celestial Court, another voice arose. Older. Deeper. A voice that did not argue or warn.
It sentenced.
"And it is not ours."