The universe trembled — not from war, but from uncertainty.
In the span of days, the thirteen greatest rulers of existence had all felt it:
A ripple with no source.
A presence with no name.
An event so great... that even the threads of fate refused to weave it.
So they did what they had not done in over two thousand years.
They gathered.
Not on land, not in sea, not in any realm.
But in the Center of the Universe — where no crown ruled, and no domain reached.
There stood a floating temple, older than stars, untouched since the First Dawn.
A circular hall awaited them.
The Throned Chamber, forged in silence and sealed by oath.
It was not a chamber of thirteen alone.
Many more seats lined the circle — some draped in dust, untouched for ages. Others gleamed, waiting for powers that no longer walked among the living. And there were those reserved for beings too free, too untamed, to ever answer a call such as this.
But thirteen would never stand empty.
Thirteen rulers. One truth waiting.
Flames roared. Lightning crackled. Shadows deepened. Time itself paused at the gates.
One by one, they arrived:
The Demon King, with eyes like burning coal.
The Dragon King, in armor of living flame.
The Angel King, his wings veiled in golden light.
The God-King, silent and unreadable.
Kaelthys, Warden of Ice, whose breath turned air to frost.
The King of Beasts, prowling, unchained.
The Queen of Spirits, her form shimmering between worlds.
The Queen of Poison, venom dripping from her touch.
Tharos, Lord of Lightning, impatient and sparking.
Veynar, Stormlord, rumbling with thunder beneath his skin.
Erevos, Sovereign of Shadows, wrapped in silence.
The King of Sea, ancient and slow, his presence like the tide.
And Aurelia, the Aurora Sentinel, radiant as dawn.
But before any of them could speak...
The air changed.
A shimmer passed through the chamber. Old magic.
And into the hall walked a man older than any of them.
Elder Solarin.
He wore no crown. No sword. No armor.
Just robes faded by time, and a staff carved with ancient words.
The rulers stood. All of them.
Even the God-King.
Because Elder Solarin was not a ruler.
He was the Watcher of the Worlds.
And he was never wrong.
"Thirteen thrones," Solarin said, his voice calm as dusk,
"but only eight souls matter now."
A pause. Silence fell heavier than any storm.
"You all felt it. The shiver in the stars. The breath without fate.
Eight children, scattered like seeds — not born to destiny,
but born without it."
Eyes widened. Some in awe. Others in fear.
"They will not follow your rules," Solarin said.
"They will not kneel to your crowns.
And they will not be found... unless they allow it."
The Angel King stepped forward.
"You speak of prophecy?"
Solarin shook his head.
"I speak of its death."
Each ruler looked at the others, unsure of whether to fear or hope.
Then Elder Solarin whispered one last thing, a warning and a truth:
"You did not lose control.
You never had it."
With those words, Elder Solarin walked forward, staff echoing against the stone, and sat down in one of the empty seats at the circle's edge.
And for the first time in two thousand years, the thrones were not the only ones watching.
End of Chapter 4 – The Gathering of Thrones