A cold glow illuminated the enclave, devoid of any apparent source. There were no walls, only numerous levels of the law compacted together to form a circular prison. At its center hovered a massive ball of shifting black and gold, the size of an average man. Numerous tendrils of stolen authority snaked their way towards the orb, pumping it with slow, steady rhythms of power.
Suspended at the center of the chamber, bound with chains of conceptual metal, were the old Progenitors. The keepers of the seats of power of the sealed universe, their bodies drained of their former glory, their eyes hollow with the endless trickle of their authority down the narrow channel of metal towards the prize at the center of the ring.
Damaris. Lilith. Elara. Kaelthos. Fenrir. Inari. Nyxara. Michael. Void. And the names of others long dead who had once sat at the helm of the sealed universe before their slow and steady execution by the new generation of gods.
