Chapter 3 – The Immortals Stir
In the sanctum of glass and alabaster, the light began to fail.
High above the sleeping city, the Hall of Illumination glowed like a false dawn. Seven thrones encircled a basin of molten radiance; its surface, once calm as a mirror, now rippled as though stirred by a hidden wind.
The First Radiant opened his eyes. They burned white, yet behind the glow was something close to fear.
"Who touches the covenant?" he murmured.
The Archivist stepped from the shadows—neither man nor woman, voice smooth as polished stone.
"Records speak of no breach," they said, hands clasped over a tome that wrote itself in threads of light. "And yet the Essence thins."
The liquid in the basin hissed, releasing a faint, human cry.
Across from them, the Warden of Light rose, armor gleaming like glass soaked in sunlight.
"It is him," the Warden said. "The chained one stirs. The pulse matches the old resonance."
A tremor passed through the chamber. The luminous floor beneath their feet showed faint shapes moving beneath its surface—faces, reaching upward, the souls of the sacrificed murmuring in unison.
> Light is not born; it must be fed.
The Keeper of Grace pressed a serene smile onto her lips.
"Impossible. We drained his divinity. We scattered the bones of his name."
"Bones remember," the Archivist said softly. "And names have a way of returning."
The Voice of Harmony let out a silken laugh, gilded with hysteria. "Then we remind the world what he was. A monster. A curse. We tighten faith. Burn doubt where it sprouts."
But the Heir of Dawn, surrounded by blooming white lilies that never wilted, looked toward the trembling light above them.
"If he has risen," she whispered, "then the sun will envy his wrath."
The Silent Seraph did not speak. They only lifted a gloved hand, red blooming faintly through the fabric at the wrist, and let a drop of gold-white blood fall into the basin. The liquid roared. The hall dimmed.
Together, the seven voices merged, one echo through seven mouths:
> "Bind the world in brightness. Seek the vessel who woke him. Bring us the spark before he remembers what he is."
---
Far beneath the same sky, Elian Vale watched the heavens fracture.
Lightning without thunder stitched the horizon. The desert breathed hot and alive, dunes rippling like the backs of sleeping beasts. The man beside him—the god who refused any name—stood still as a pillar of obsidian.
"They know you're free," Elian said quietly.
The god's eyes gleamed with that impossible gold, reflecting the riven sky. "They should. I built their light. It was mine before they bled it from me."
His voice carried no anger, only the exhaustion of a wound too deep for fury.
Elian hugged his arms around himself, sand biting at his cheeks. "If what you say is true, they'll come for us."
"They will come for me," the god corrected. "You are merely the echo that woke the song."
"Then why keep me?" Elian asked, harsher than intended. "Why not vanish back into myth?"
The god turned toward him, that unreadable face softening in the firelight spilling from the horizon. "Because you touched my tomb without fear. Because you looked at me and saw something worth believing in, even if you did not understand."
Elian's pulse fluttered. "I thought you were the New God—Aurelius."
"And now?"
Elian met his gaze, searching for cruelty and finding only sorrow. "Now I think… I don't know what to think."
The god stepped closer. The air between them hummed. His presence was not heat but gravity, drawing Elian's breath from his lungs. A strand of the god's dark hair brushed Elian's face; it smelled faintly of iron and rain.
"Then let me show you," the god murmured. "Help me find what they stole, and you will see the truth of gods."
From the horizon came another flare—an unnatural dawn bursting across the night. Within that light, shapes moved: seven silhouettes, bright as angels and hollow as stars.
Elian shielded his eyes. "What are they?"
"The Council," the god said, gaze never leaving the light. "Once my disciples. Now my gaolers."
The wind rose, carrying a distant, harmonious chant—the prayer of thousands. The god listened, expression unreadable. "They still feed their faith with blood."
He looked back to Elian. "Come."
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here. The unsealing has awakened their saints. To them, your breath is evidence, your life a threat."
Elian hesitated, torn between awe and terror. "And you?"
The god smiled—a small, terrible thing. "I do not fear the light. I remember what hides inside it."
---
High above, in the Hall of Illumination, the First Radiant raised his hands. Around him the seven formed a circle, their bodies glowing with feverish brilliance.
> "Find him," he commanded. "And find the mortal who bears his scent."
Below, the dunes shifted. Shadows and light began to crawl toward one another.
The hunt had begun.