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Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Ten: When Throne and Flesh Converge
There was no dawn on that fateful day.
The horizon bled with deep hues of crimson and violet, a grotesque panorama where hesitant light seeped forth, spreading outward like an agonizing wound that stubbornly refused to close. The land beneath this turbulent sky trembled as if caught in a profound dilemma, unsure whether it should quiver with paralyzing fear or stand in awe of the ominous spectacle unfolding above.
Deep within the somber confines of the Valley of Endless Echoes—once a revered site where faithful mortals gathered, laying their hearts bare under the expansive canopy of an unblemished sky—an eerie stillness prevailed. A vast multitude stood immobilized, trapped in the choking embrace of inaction. There were no impassioned sermons issuing forth, no fervent prayers lifted in hope. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the rustling of the wind, which seemed to mock their stillness.
Among the throng loomed hundreds of stone figures, expertly sculpted in loving tribute to the Twelve deities they once revered. Their eyes, though blind and unyielding, were cast upward toward the chaotic skies, mirroring the desperation etched on the faces of the living. Then, in a cataclysmic moment of cosmic reckoning, the statues disintegrated in a cacophony of shattering stone and swirling dust, their hearts splintering alongside their stony exteriors.
As dust settled, a shocking revelation unfolded; behind their formerly cold and unyielding surfaces, eyes flickered open, revealing ashen, terrified faces, souls encased in flesh that once stood petrified in fear. The crowd recoiled in horror, screams of terror echoing through the valley as these ancient figures—now vibrant with unsettling life—rose anew. They were men and women who had once walked their paths with unwavering faith but who now found themselves awakened from their stone slumber by an amalgam of sorrow and a rekindled, fervent rage.
Falling to their knees, they bowed before the horizon where the sun failed to make its appearance, a grim void cast over the day.
For there was no dawn, only the undeniable presence of him.
Out of the swirling dust and crumbled remnants of worship stepped a commanding figure, tall and gaunt against the backdrop of the shattered idols. Wings of black ash unfurled from behind him, low and ominous, like the remnants of an abandoned temple.
This was Kaliel—a mortal knight once favored and chosen by the divine Vaelios to be sanctified amid consuming flames. However, the fires he had called upon never responded to his desperate entreaties. Instead, they burned with the fierce intensity of grief that coursed through his heart, leaving it an aching void.
With resolute determination, he grasped his sword—once a beacon of radiant favor now transformed, glowing with the fierce light of mortal purpose rather than divine promise.
"For every soul they consumed," he cried out, his voice raw and strained from the depth of bitterness and fury, "for every prayer they silenced…"
As he took a step forward, a multitude followed—more figures emerged, a procession of the forsaken—farmers who toiled in the fields, scholars who sought knowledge in the stars, and innocent children who had suffered unjustly. Each bore the scars of celestial oppression etched deeply into their souls, illuminated by the creeping dawn of rebellion.
A single voice, cracked yet unwavering, rose above the hushed commotion.
"We are the broken. We are the erased. But today… we rise."
High above in the ethereal realms of the Celestial Prism, the Eleven thrones quaked in response to the tremors echoing from the mortal plane below.
At the head of the assembly, the formidable Erethur stood, his weapon, Veredictum, drawn and humming ominously. The blade's unsheathed form seemed to vibrate in anticipation, poised as if preparing to sever the very roots that connected the divine to its sacred soil.
"He is forging an army from our victims," Virelya whispered, her tone reflecting a blend of dread and disbelief.
"He is forging it from truth," Erethur retorted with a gravitas that resonated through the vaulted ceilings overhead.
With a powerful step forward, his voice cascaded across the chamber, commanding attention and respect.
"We must strike first. Before he becomes a god among mortals."
His fierce gaze turned toward Iserion, steel and resolve glimmering in his eyes.
"Prepare the Seal of Ascendance. It binds the flesh to the throne—and the will to ours."
Back on the mortal realm, Kazuren knelt before his newly appointed vanguard, the flickering light in his golden eyes scanning each face before him. He chose not to speak; instead, he stood in silence, and the very air around him thickened, responding to his presence.
Kaliel knelt alongside him, his sword resolutely planted in the cracked earth, a symbol of both anguish and tenacity.
"Do you lead us?" he questioned, urgency lacing his tone.
Kazuren's voice emerged, low and unwavering:
"I don't lead. I return."
"Return…" Kaliel echoed, the word lifting his blade as if it were propelled by a force greater than himself.
And behind them, something extraordinary happened; the land itself bloomed—a brief yet beautiful moment flickering into existence. Vines twisted through shattered stone, vibrant green grass emerged to reclaim the lost ashes, and a solitary flower blossomed defiantly from soil that had long known only despair.
From the heights of the Citadel, a bolt of black lightning erupted—a fierce bolt crackling with divine energy that spearheaded its way toward the gathering of mortals as if cast by the hands of cosmic enforcers intent on maintaining order in their celestial hierarchy.
The vanguard shuddered, their newfound strength threatened by the ominous display. Kaliel instinctively raised his sword, prepared to protect those who had risen alongside him.
Yet Kazuren remained unmoved.
With a tranquil gesture, he caught the furious lightning in his outstretched palm, absorbing its wrathful energy as if it were naught but a fleeting breeze.
In that moment, the world erupted in brilliance, light flooding the sky like a cataclysmic sunrise.
Shadows were battered under the relentless onslaught of radiance; flesh melded into solid stone, while the ancient stone transformed into dancing flames.
When the luminescence finally dimmed, the black lightning had vanished. The bolt had been unmade, lost to the very void from which it had sprung.
An eerie silence fell upon the mortals as they stood in awe, their hearts pounding in unison with the rhythm of fate.
The sky hummed with unseen energy, crackling in anticipation, as Kazuren lifted his voice—a vibrant melody rising above the stillness:
"They stole your names. They stole your faith. I will give you something greater."
As he gazed upward, fixing his eyes on the heavens, he declared with fervor:
"Justice."
The ground quaked violently in response, the profound tremors felt by both god and mortal alike, echoing the unshakable resolve that had been ignited in that pivotal moment. As the very fabric of existence began to shift, the world would never know tranquility again. The struggle between celestial beings and the forsaken would become an epic saga, woven into the destiny of all who dared to rise.
In the majestic realm of the Celestial Prism, a magnificent structure that had long stood as a beacon of hope and power, the thrones, once a symbol of unity and strength, began to fracture ominously. The cracks, delicate yet severe, deepened steadily, their jagged lines weaving an unsettling tapestry across the once pristine surface.
As time passed within the tranquil confines of the dome, a solitary fissure emerged, radiating like a dark omen through the vibrant colors of the dome's intricate design. This crack was not merely a physical blemish; it resonated with a foreboding energy, echoing the tension and unrest that had been silently brewing for so long.
Erethur, a figure of wisdom and strength, felt an unshakeable sensation ripple through him—an instinctual awareness that surged through the very marrow of his bones. It was as though the very essence of the Celestial Prism was communicating a dire message, resonating with the turmoil festering beneath the surface of their reality.
He gathered his thoughts, sensing the weight of history bearing down upon him. "It begins," he spoke, his voice steady yet laced with a hint of urgency. This simple declaration hung in the air like a bell tolling, signaling the dawn of a new, tumultuous chapter in their existence. What had once been a sanctuary of peace was now poised on the precipice of change, promising trials that would test the fortitude of all who called the Celestial Prism home.
To be continued...