I had buried cities.
I had erased bloodlines so completely that even history forgot their names.
I had ordered the deaths of men who prayed to the same God I did and slept peacefully the same night.
And yet, standing in the silent chamber beneath Babel, staring at the empty space where Trance's presence should have been, I felt something I had not felt in centuries.
Loss.
Not grief.
Loss was different. Loss was born from absence. It was the feeling of something important taken
away from you.
What happened when the rules you built
collapsed?
Trance was dead.
And Oma had killed him.
The law had been broken.
Not by accident.
Not by chaos.
But by choice.
What law was this exactly?
True Slayers were never meant to be weapons. Weapons rusted. Weapons got discarded. Weapons turned on their masters.
I had made them a family.
I had bound them with law instead of chains, with belonging instead of fear.
No True Slayer was to kill another.
That was my only decree to them.
Because only a True Slayer could end another True Slayer.
When mere mortals struck them down, death had no hold on them. Their souls returned. The world stayed the same.
But when one of us killed the other —
There was no coming back.
No return.
Just absence.
That law was the spine of everything I had built.
And Oma snapped it the moment his blade kissed Trance's throat.
Babel tried to celebrate anyway.
It always did.
The city was good at pretending blood was wine if you poured enough music over it.
Nine thousand Summoned Slayers filled the great hall of Adreya, armor polished, blades ceremonial, voices loud with relief. My banners hung from the pillars — black and gold — fluttering in the heat of torchlight. Laughter rang out where screams had been only days ago.
My daughter lived.
That alone demanded celebration.
Oma stood among them like a shadow that refused to dance.
Stubborn and proud.
I watched him from the upper balcony, the Veil of Glass resting against my face, reflecting the chaos below. They admired him already. I could see it in the way heads turned, in the space they gave him without realizing why.
They loved killers when the killing was clean.
They never asked what rules were broken to make the miracle happen.
I descended slowly.
The sound of my boots against marble silenced the hall piece by piece. By the time my foot hit the floor, even the musicians had lowered their instruments.
Good.
I raised my hand.
"My Slayers."
Nine thousand voices answered with steel against chest.
"I did not gather you tonight to praise death," I said. "I gathered you to acknowledge survival."
Murmurs of approval followed.
I gestured toward Oma.
"This boy saved my daughter."
That word — daughter — cracked something open. Cheers exploded. Cups were raised. Names were shouted.
I let them have it.
Then I lifted my hand again.
Silence fell like a blade.
"In Babel," I continued, "those who kill for this empire are not heroes. They are not children. They are Slayers."
My gaze never left Oma.
"And tonight, one more joined your ranks."
He stiffened.
I turned fully toward him.
"Step forward."
For half a breath, he didn't.
Then he moved.
I placed my hand on his shoulder — firm, public, unmistakable.
"From this night onward," I declared, my voice echoing against stone and bone, "you will know him by a new name."
I paused.
Not for drama.
For cruelty.
"Wedlock."
The hall reacted instantly.
Some flinched.
Some smiled.
Some laughed.
In Babel, names were verdicts.
"Give him the respect owed to a fellow Slayer," I commanded. "As you would any killer who bore my authority."
They bowed.
Not to Oma.
To the title.
He came for me later, fury barely contained.
We stood alone in a chamber overlooking the lower tiers of Babel, lanterns drifting through the night air like wounded stars.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why would you do that?"
I didn't answer immediately.
"Do you know what wedlock meant here?" I asked.
"Yes," he snapped. "I'm not stupid."
"Good," I replied. "Then you know it wasn't mockery. It was classification."
"You introduced me like property."
"You killed like one," I said.
The words hit him harder than any fist.
His jaw clenched. His shadow stirred.
"That was payback," he realized.
I smiled.
"In your culture," I said, "parents arranged engagements. Weddings came later. Children came when they came."
I stepped closer.
"In Babel, we required vows before bloodlines."
His eyes burned.
"You named me for something my parents never did."
"Yes," I said calmly. "Petty of me."
That stunned him more than denial would have.
"Trance was family," I continued. "And you took him from us."
Silence stretched between us.
"I saved your daughter," he said.
"And you broke my law."
Both truths stood.
Only one could survive.
"The nine hundred wanted you dead. You have no idea what it took to hold them back," I said.
I continued,
"I paid the price because you saved my child."
I pulled off the glove on my right hand, showing him my burnt palms.
Oma looked once, then said,
"That changed nothing. Don't think I forgot why I came to Babel. You will die by my hands, Zefar. Let what happened be your reminder."
I added, "I reminded them of Trance's madness, his crimes, his danger.
They listened.
Then they delivered their condition."
I took a deep breath before saying,
"They will let you live.
But only in Babel."
I remembered exactly how they said it,
"If he leaves," they said, "he is prey."
Any True Slayer.
Any time.
Any place.
I agreed.
Not because I wanted to.
Because the alternative was civil war.
Oma listened without interrupting, the way warriors did when they already knew the answer.
"So if I leave," he said quietly, "they'll hunt me."
"Yes," I said.
I also revealed his only way out,
"If you wished to survive, kill me and leave in peace, you must become more feared than me."
"Without that, they will hunt you forever."
The truth settled like iron.
"I don't have a choice," he said.
"No," I agreed. "You don't."
I placed a hand on his shoulder — not as a king, but as the man who had just condemned him.
"Train," I told him. "Because I am no longer your only enemy."
We looked at Babel, vast and merciless.
"Become something they fear."
"That was the only escape," I said. "Not freedom. Legend."
And in that moment, I knew exactly what I had done.
I hadn't punished him.
I had forged him.
If he survived Babel, even the True Slayers would whisper his name.
And if he didn't—
Then the law remained intact.
That was his burden now.
That was the consequence of his damn actions.