The sound of the cuffs snapping was small but carried through the chamber like thunder.
A sharp, crystalline crack, and then another—metal meant to hold gods came apart in Moonveil's hands as though it had been molded from wet clay. The chains sagged to the floor with a hollow rattle that echoed against the marble walls of the Court of Power.
Every head turned. Every breath held.
Marc—no longer merely the man they had tried to contain—looked up at the rows of assembled heroes and smiled, a cold and knowing smile. The Aetheric dampeners that had suppressed divine power still hummed faintly at his ankles, but the light in his veins was already breaking through, pulsing like a living heartbeat beneath his skin.
He flexed his wrists once, absently rubbing where the cuffs had bitten into his flesh. "This won't keep me tied," he said simply.
The words were casual, conversational almost, but they fell into the silence like a prophecy.
Whispers rippled across the court.
"He broke Aetheric binds—without effort…"
"Not even Kane could do that…"
"Is he stronger than her?"
"Maybe stronger than any of us…"
The murmurs spread like infection. Shiloh Kane's jaw tightened. Her hand trembled—not with fear, but with rage—and her eyes, sharp and flint-gray, locked onto the man before her.
"Enough," she said, her voice cutting through the whispering like a blade. "You have mocked this court long enough, Moonveil. You have mocked me."
She rose from her seat, the sigil of the League burning faintly on her uniform. The light from the dome above caught the edge of her sword, still sheathed, but already eager.
"This tribunal was meant to decide your fate," she continued. "But there's no point pretending anymore. You are too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too arrogant to coexist with the rest of us."
There were murmurs again—quieter now, more fearful.
Kane's eyes were cold steel. "Marc Stevenson—Moonveil—you are hereby sentenced to death by execution. The Court of Power has spoken."
A gasp rolled through the crowd, sharp and collective, as if the room itself exhaled in shock.
No one dared speak.
Even the Lioness, usually quick to roar her opinions, took a long breath before she nodded once, her golden eyes hard. "He's right. He's not a hero. He's a storm pretending to be justice. If we don't end him now, the next city he saves will be a crater."
Shiloh's gaze flicked to her, grateful for the echo. "Then it's settled."
Across the room, a few others—Palisade, the Cyber-Titan, and even the Lion of Kilimanjaro—shifted uncomfortably. None spoke aloud. None dared contradict the League's Director and the most powerful meta-human in recorded history.
To defy Kane in the Court was to defy the League itself.
Marc stood in the center of the storm of silence, his head tilted slightly, as though watching a tragedy play out from a distance. "So that's it?" he asked softly. "You hide behind rules and call it order. You kill what you fear and call it justice. You think you've won because you've decided my ending."
His voice deepened—not loud, but full, vibrating through the air like something ancient remembering its shape. "You think gods are bound by your verdicts."
Nobody answered him.
Outside the Court, the world held its breath.
Governments across continents had already been watching. Every screen in every war room, every secure feed, every satellite connection replayed the moment the cuffs shattered. Analysts compared energy readings, tried to find a metric, a precedent, a containment strategy.
There wasn't one.
Moonveil was a singularity, not an anomaly.
He was the kind of being who made men remember that the gods they worshipped were once monsters they couldn't kill.
And so, the human powers waited—helpless, terrified, pretending to believe the League could handle it.
When the press conference came, it was delivered with the practiced authority of theater.
Shiloh Kane stood before the world in her black and silver uniform, flanked by the Lioness and Palisade. Cameras clicked. Drones hovered.
"After careful deliberation," she said, "the Superio League and the Court of Power have found Moonveil guilty of crimes against humanity, reckless destruction, and acts of divine terror. His actions in London—while seemingly righteous—were conducted outside any accepted code of conduct. His disregard for collateral life and his defiance of authority cannot be tolerated.
"Tomorrow morning," she continued, voice firm, "the vigilante known as Moonveil will be executed."
The world froze.
Within minutes, every social network collapsed under the flood of reactions. #MoonveilVerdict trended in all fifty states of what remained of America. In New London Square, people gathered around holoscreens, half in protest, half in awe. Some shouted his name. Others cursed it.
For every citizen calling him a monster, there were three calling him a martyr.
But none of that mattered to the League. The verdict had been written in the quiet corners of fear long before the trial began.
---
At a small house in the countryside, Alexia fell to her knees.
The press broadcast blared from the television. Kane's face filled the screen, her tone so clinical that it almost hid the execution's cruelty.
Howard muted the sound as Alexia's sob broke the quiet. She pressed her hands to her face, tears slipping between her fingers.
"They're going to kill him," she whispered. "They're really going to kill him."
Howard knelt beside her, his expression grave but calm. "No," he said softly. "They're going to try. But Marc always has a plan. He wouldn't walk into this blind."
Her eyes met his, desperate. "He's not a god, Howard."
"No," Howard said. "He's something worse—for them. He's a man who's already died once. They can't threaten him with that again."
---
The next morning, the execution chamber was built to impress the concept of power.
A circular platform of black Aetherium alloy glowed faintly under the light of the dome above. Around it, the world's most powerful heroes stood in a ring—a tribunal of judgment dressed as righteousness.
Every member of the League was present, from the golden-clad Lioness to the unflinching Kane, whose silver sword gleamed like a promise.
The press wasn't allowed inside, but the feed would be transmitted later—sanitized, edited, stripped of chaos.
Marc was brought in under guard, still cuffed, though it seemed a pointless formality now. His expression was unreadable, his eyes clear and distant, as though he were already somewhere else entirely.
Kane stepped forward, the blade of her sword reflecting the light. "Marc Stevenson," she said, "by order of the Superio League, you are to be executed for crimes against humanity and the sanctity of this world. Do you have any last words?"
Marc looked around the room. The heroes who had once sworn to defend the world stood in a perfect circle of silence. Some couldn't meet his eyes. Others looked away, ashamed.
He smiled.
"Last words?" he said softly. "Yes."
His voice filled the chamber like the quiet before a storm.
"You can't kill me. Not like this, at least."
Kane frowned. "What did you say?"
"I said," he repeated, louder this time, his voice carrying with the weight of inevitability, "you can't kill me. I've died once already, and I'm not afraid to do it again. But you—" he pointed at her with a slow, deliberate gesture, "—you should be afraid. Because when you kill a man who has nothing left to lose, what comes back isn't something you can contain."
He took one step forward. The cuffs glowed faintly, resisting him, and then—crack—snapped apart again.
He held out his arms as the suit materialized around him, flowing like living moonlight, the crescent symbol burning bright upon his chest.
"I'll warn you," he said, voice low and cold. "Only once. Stand down. Don't make me your enemy. You've no idea what you're dealing with."
Kane tightened her grip on the sword. "And if I don't?"
Moonveil's grin was sharp and sorrowful all at once.
"Then you'll learn the difference," he said softly, "between justice and survival."
And the chamber trembled, the light dimming, the air thickening with the weight of two gods' breath—one watching in silence, the other waiting for war.
---