The Golden Hall was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. It felt like a held breath.
White pillars glowed with a faint, nervous light, casting long shadows against the marble. Above them, the painted constellations on the ceiling seemed to shimmer, as if the stars were trembling at what was being said below.
On the Throne of Light, Arion Vale sat dead still. His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on the gold armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap. It sounded like a countdown.
His eyes, sharp as polished steel, swept over the room.
"We need to get ready," Arion said finally.
His voice wasn't loud, but it pressed down on everyone in the room.
"Sylas, the mortal... it doesn't matter. We have to hold the line. The Throne cannot break."
A tall god in silver armor stepped forward, hand clenched over his chest. "We're with you, Prince. Fighting Sylas might be a death sentence, but if we stick together if we actually coordinate we can stop him."
He paused, glancing around.
Heads nodded. A ripple of relief went through the room. It was a plan. It was something to hold onto.
Arion leaned back, the torchlight catching the edge of his crown.
His gaze sharpened, cutting through the sudden hope in the room.
"But the Flower of Askaroth is different."
The hall got cold. Even the magical torches seemed to dim.
"The Hawn family held it," Arion said, his voice flat. "And they were wiped out. Every last one of them. And the man who swung the blade?"
He let the silence hang there.
"Sylas's father."
A bitter murmur ran through the crowd. Another god rose, his white robes drifting like mist. He looked tired.
"I remember," he said softly. "The Ashborn clan didn't just kill the Hawn family. They erased them. I saw the fires myself."
"It wasn't a battle," another god spat, his aura flaring with anger. "It was feeding time. The Ashborns aren't gods. They're wolves."
Ashborn. The name tasted like ash in the air.
Arion looked down at his hands. "Yes. The Hawn family was murdered. And the Flower was lost. We thought it was destroyed."
He looked up.
"But now, a mortal has it."
"Impossible!" An elder god slammed his staff on the floor.
"Maybe he is," Arion said, chillingly calm. "Maybe he's burning alive right now."
He looked up at the painted stars.
"But if he survives... if he actually manages to merge the Flower with the Blood Ember... Heaven is going to shake."
"Could he be a survivor?" someone asked, their voice hushed. "A Hawn child hidden away during the massacre?"
Arion hesitated for a split second, then shook his head.
"No. The Ashborns were thorough. They hunted them across worlds. If a Hawn had survived, we would have known long before now. This mortal is something else."
"Then what is he?" the silver knight asked. "A mistake?"
"Fate doesn't make mistakes," Arion said. "It just creates balances we're too blind to see. Maybe he's the balance to Sylas. Or maybe," his eyes went cold, "he's the power that blows us all to hell."
The council erupted into whispers. Arguments broke out. Fear spiked.
"Silence."
Arion didn't shout, but the room froze.
"I will decide when we move. If we rush, Sylas will spot us. If we wait too long, the mortal becomes untouchable."
"And if Sylas gets to him first?" a young goddess whispered. "If he turns the boy?"
Arion's expression darkened. "Then the Throne falls."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, the floor shook.
The golden light sputtered and died. The torches went out, as if the air itself was strangling them.
Then came the footsteps.
Thud. Thud.
Heavy. Deliberate. Echoing like a funeral drum.
And then, a laugh. It wasn't happy. It was sharp and jagged, like a serrated knife.
"A power to blow you all to hell?" the voice mocked. "I like the sound of that."
The temperature in the room plummeted. The gods stood in the dark, lit only by the pale, painted stars above.
"Sy... Sylas..." someone choked out.
Arion stood up. He gripped the armrest, anchoring himself.
"Sylas." His voice was steady, but the tension was coiled tight. "Why are you here?"
From the shadows, he stepped out.
Black robes. Wild hair. Eyes that burned like dying suns. He was smiling, but it wasn't friendly. It was bored.
"A party without me?" Sylas laughed again. "I'm hurt. I am the head of the Ashborn clan, after all."
He looked around the room, eyeing the terrified gods like a wolf eyeing sheep.
"And it's funny... you're all whispering about the Flower of Askaroth like I don't know exactly where it is."
He looked at Arion and flicked his wrist.
A god in the third row suddenly grabbed his throat, gagging. Blood burst from his nose, splattering the white marble.
"Enough!" Arion shouted.
Sylas just grinned. "Oh, Prince. I haven't even started."
He spread his arms.
"You think I'm blind? You think the Flower just 'vanished' by accident?"
A brave god stepped forward. "Sylas, you are in the Hall of the Throne! Show some respect"
Sylas didn't even look at him. He just snapped his fingers.
The god was yanked into the air by an invisible hand, kicking and choking.
"Quiet," Sylas said.
The hall went dead still.
"Put him down," Arion demanded, stepping off the dais. His golden aura flared, pushing back the darkness.
Sylas rolled his eyes. With a bored sigh, he opened his hand. The god dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
"You really don't get it," Sylas whispered. "All these centuries, and you're still so slow."
"What are you talking about?" Arion narrowed his eyes.
"The Flower," Sylas said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a thief. It was me."
The room gasped.
"I hid it in the Death Spring Mountains," Sylas said, looking delighted with himself. "I left it there waiting."
"Why?" Arion asked, stunned. "Why give that power to a human?"
"Because I saw what you missed, Prince. I saw the ember." Sylas stepped closer. "That kid ,Jiyul he didn't just stumble onto this. He already talks to Velkhan."
The name hit the room like a grenade. Velkhan.
"Impossible," Arion breathed.
"Is it?" Sylas smirked. "He knows me. He knows my blood. He's seen the mess I left in the mountains."
He pointed a finger at Arion.
"You call him a mistake. You call him a threat."
His eyes flared.
"But he's mine. My seed. My weapon. And when he's ready, he's going to be the fire that burns your little Throne to the ground."
Sylas threw his head back and laughed, the sound rolling through the hall like thunder.
Arion stood tall, his golden fire blazing to fight back the shadows.
"You've played your games, Sylas," he said, his voice hard as iron. "But the Throne won't fall. Not to you."
He glared at the dark god.
"And not to your mortal."
Sylas just tilted his head, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"We'll see, Prince. We'll see."