Before Kael took his first breath, the heavens already knew his name.
They just refused to speak it.
High above the mortal world, beyond clouds and stars, beyond prayer and faith, the Seven Divine Thrones floated in perfect alignment. Each throne was carved from a different concept—Light, Law, Time, Order, Mercy, Dominion, and Creation itself.
For ten thousand years, they had never moved.
Until that night.
A crack formed in the firmament.
Not large.
Not visible to mortals.
But to the gods, it was a wound.
Golden light leaked from it like blood.
The God of Order rose first, his form towering, wings unfurling with a sound like grinding steel.
"Something has violated the cycle," he said, voice echoing across eternity.
The Goddess of Mercy turned her gaze downward, peering through layers of reality until she saw it—
A small, insignificant village.
A woman screaming in labor.
A child forcing his way into existence.
Her expression twisted.
"No," she whispered. "Not him."
The God of Time slammed his staff into the void.
"I sealed that soul," he roared. "I shattered it across eras. It should not be able to reform."
"And yet," said the God of Dominion coldly, "it does."
The crack widened.
Far below, in the mortal realm, the sky darkened without warning.
Grey Hollow was a village too small to matter.
It sat on cracked land where crops barely grew, where prayers were louder than hope. The people there lived quietly, fearing monsters, demons, and—above all—the gods.
When the wind stopped, they noticed.
When the air grew heavy, they panicked.
When the clouds twisted into spirals, they prayed.
Inside a collapsing hut, a woman named Lysa screamed as pain tore through her body. Sweat drenched her skin. Blood soaked the dirt floor.
"This child…" the midwife muttered, hands shaking. "This child does not want to be born."
Lysa cried out, gripping the midwife's arm.
"Please," she begged. "Save him."
The midwife hesitated.
For a moment, she saw something move beneath Lysa's skin—not a kick, not a normal motion.
Something turning.
Something remembering.
Then the scream came.
Not from Lysa.
From the sky.
It was a sound no human throat could make—raw, ancient, filled with rage and agony. The clouds split apart as if torn by invisible claws. Thunder rolled, but there was no lightning.
Villagers collapsed to their knees.
Some bled from their ears.
Others went mad instantly, laughing and crying as they clawed at their eyes.
Inside the hut, symbols ignited across the walls, carving themselves into wood and clay. The air burned.
The midwife shrieked as she was thrown backward.
And the child was born.
He did not cry.
The infant lay silent in his mother's arms, eyes wide open.
Black.
Endless.
They reflected no firelight, no fear—only depth.
On his chest, a sigil burned briefly before fading into his skin, as if hiding.
The sky screamed again.
Far above, the Seven Thrones shook violently.
The Goddess of Creation stood, her face pale.
"That mark," she said slowly. "That is not demonic."
The God of Light snarled. "It is worse."
The crack in the firmament split wide open.
For one impossible moment, heaven and earth looked directly at each other.
And the child looked back.