"What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun."
– Ecclesiastes 1:9
Deep within the capital of Evascera, buried beneath marble towers and layers of gilded pride, the dungeons of the Castle Bloom stirred with a frenzy. Voralis, the Grace of Life—known more fearfully as the Blooming Maw—was devouring in a state of mania.
Slabs of meat, raw and bloody, were thrown before her in frantic succession by trembling servants, trying to sate a hunger that wasn't of the stomach, but of the soul.
This was the first time in centuries that something more terrifying than a Vanderes had brushed so close to Signo—and worse, its origin was rooted in her own domain.
"Damn it… damn it all!" she muttered, mouth stuffed, chewing with a frantic rage.
Vanderes were no trivial threat. They were one of the only two known beings capable of wounding a Grace. The other were the Sealed Beasts—creatures so dangerous that even speaking their names was taboo.
But this... this presence… it wasn't either of them. It was something new, and that terrified her far more. Something had crept onto Signo—unseen, unknown—and the possibility of a third force that could challenge the divine order made her veins crawl.
Her golden eyes shifted toward a servant who dared to meet her gaze—and in an instant, she killed him. No hesitation. No thought. Then revived him. And killed him again.
And again.
Until her manic laughter broke the tension, and she sank her teeth into his corpse like it was just another cut of meat on the platter. To her, it was.
Far above, the floating continent of Elarith trembled. Its stability, woven and maintained by Gildar Vane, the Grace of Space, pulsed unnaturally. He stared down from his silver spire, hands twitching. Greed, his constant hunger, stirred in defiance. Whatever this new surge was—it dared to oppose him. That could not be tolerated.
Even Chroneth, the Grace of Time—so deeply entrenched in slumber that entire decades passed between his words—was now awake. A rare occurrence in itself. He had dreamed… not idly, but violently. A nightmare of unraveling timelines and vanishing gods.
A force was rising.
A force that could reduce the Graces themselves to stories.
And then, for the first time in nearly a century, the Seven Graces were gathered.
On the skybound lands of Elarith, three hours after the first wave of power had been felt—they convened.
Maldak Vire, the Grace of Death, leaned forward first, his voice cold and biting like grave-soil.
"This is bullshit. We control the very fabric of Signo—and yet we all felt it. That surge… no Vanderes we've faced had power like that. Whatever it is, it dies first."
Murmurs of agreement echoed, solemn nods exchanged. But then, Chroneth spoke, his words slow and solemn like dripping wax:
"I had a vision… oftheend."
He turned his gaze to Velmira Nyx, Grace of Senses.
Her cold elegance flickered as she stiffened beneath his gaze.
"Sirithane will be the first to fall. You'd best tighten your grip on your continent. I couldn't see its face… but it was a person."
A long silence followed.
A person? Impossible. No mage could rival them. No human could even approach them.
And yet…
Far from the clouds of Elarith and the scheming of self-proclaimed gods, under the same moon that had whispered madness just a night before… Azriel stirred awake.
His body still ached from the rooftop fall, yet no bones were broken. Not even a bruise. Just that same circular scar pulsing faintly on his forehead. He blinked at the ceiling of his inn room, disoriented, but strangely calm.
The world had shifted. He felt it, though he couldn't explain how.
In some deep, instinctual part of him—he knew he had been seen.
But deep within, his curiosity was satisfied.
"I came back again…" he muttered to himself. He hadn't stayed dead—not really. He died, yes, but here he was again.
"I can fight back now… finally." A spark of defiance lit in his chest, but it quickly dimmed. "But how…?" Doubt crept in, wrapping around his thoughts like chains. No… I can't. His mind spiraled. They're gods among men. I may return from the dead, but what power do I actually wield?
It was true—he had conquered death.
But not power.
He sighed and pushed the thoughts aside. I'll save this for another day. With that, Azriel turned toward the inn, his steps heavy, seeking rest rather than answers.
The next day would bring no peace.
Azriel had fallen into his usual routine, brushing off the night's revelations like a strange dream. But as he walked through the bustling streets, he was stopped by a squad of enforcers clad in black and steel.
"What's going on, sirs?" he asked, puzzled by their presence.
One of them stepped forward, visor glinting. "Go back to your inn, kid. Prime Regent Cole received a direct order from Her Grace of Life. Lockdown is in effect across Reigo. No one in, no one out. We're conducting investigations."
Azriel froze. Grace of Life? Lockdown?
"Oh… okay. Thanks for letting me know," he managed, nodding before turning away. But his thoughts were spiraling again.
Why a lockdown? Is it because of last night? Did they feel what I felt? Were they watching me?
No. No… I felt something. Something divine. But that wasn't them… was it?
Paranoia clawed at him. He may be reborn again and again, but the Graces were something else entirely—forces that didn't just break men, but rewrote what it meant to be human.
He sat down in the corner of his room, heart pounding as he tried to piece together a plan.
Then, the world erupted.
A loud bang. Then another. And another.
Gunshots. Screams. Chaos. The city echoed with horror as terror swept through the streets like wildfire.
Then, a voice—magnified and godlike—poured through the city's megaphones. The voice of Voralis, cold and cruel and dripping with twisted authority.
"My people of Reigo… please, forgive this Queen of yours."
Her tone shifted, darker, hungrier.
"It was simply so sudden that we discovered a hidden Vanderes among you."
A pause. Then her true malice bled through.
"Those who step outside, disobey orders, or resist inspection…
will be executed."
Azriel whose mind was in scrambles, only thought of one thing, one person.
Gio, please be safe.