There was nothing more to be said. My sister had her being manipulated, her very existence rewritten.
The form that now existed before me was different from all others.
She was reliant on me. I was the catalyst through which she persisted.
Her essence had been altered by me, yet above, beyond, and encompassing me, the Trinity of Self endured.
She could now become what necessity demanded, if she must.
The True Will of my Trinity of Self had imposed itself upon reality in such a way that this will, beyond reality, immutable, eternal, had given birth to new laws.
Laws that transcended all others. This was a Cardinal Law, conceived in the confluence of my will and hers.
Her acceptance had been crucial, though the law would have imposed itself regardless. It existed now, immutable and eternal.
I could imagine a world in which she might regain her power, but it could only be through my will. The Cardinal Law I sensed had been created was simple, yet absolute.
She was my instrument, my tool, a thread I could weave into any tapestry, across any point, any continuity.
The Trinity of Self, the totality of myself, could express such a will.
This will encompassed all laws that define this world.
[Nicholas had issued these Cardinal decrees, feats possible only for those who dwell beyond all measure.]
Because I relied on my Trinity of Self, which relied on nothing, It was the source.
It was the source which was beyond thought, or rather my thought, I could think all I want, nothing could come of it.
It exists without needing confirmation, without needing to be recognized, without requiring the world to think it into reality. It is the only truth that remains even if all minds fall silent.
They all in kind perceive us as brittle, as devoid of emotion, as incapable of love, and grants us grace.
They manipulate the Narrative, invent laws and concepts, provide goals to wander toward.
They are blocks of God, yet idols to those who know the truth, and the truth is we are all liars, deceiving ourselves into thinking this world matters.
Yet despite knowing this, we exercise our free will. We act, even when we do not know why.
Because I am imperfect, limited, sufficient, flawed, even malevolent, I could only hope that upon reaching Hell, I might find a task devoid of meaning.
In contrast to Heaven, Hell forces all things toward imperfection, and those unable to withstand it fade.
A false version of the self is reduced to mere essence, elevated only by those above.
I weighed the options carefully and decided Nicole would not suffer that fate. I considered whether she had simply yielded, her will, her life, her resolve given entirely to me.
Had she gone astray? What might she do, or what would occur, when I am no longer present? Such is the strangeness of my sister.
I turned slowly, hair swaying in the air as my boots struck the marble, deliberate until I returned to my throne.
I looked down at her, kneeling before me like a prayer, calm in a way that unsettled me.
"It is done," I said softly. "Forevermore, sister, you shall be aligned with me. I hope your willingness is eternal."
Before me, the true Chariot of Envy was born, envying her previous freedom, now bound to perpetual purpose, to a meaning she could not escape.
It was the taking of her power, her strength, her glory, the gift given from beyond, refracted through the principle of alignment.
Even as her soul remained deep within, accepting, there was still resistance.
"Brother?" she whispered, voice trembling. "This is… it's wrong. You can't do this."
I studied her in silence. "It was arithmetic," I said. "The kind that cannot be written, only understood."
Her body shivered as she tried to move, limbs uncertain, as though she were newly born into a form unrecognized. And perhaps she was.
She was no longer Nicole as she had existed. She was an echo of a divided being, rewritten in a single, simultaneous act.
To absorb her Regalia was to split what cannot be split, to stretch a singularity across an impossible horizon.
Yet even in this, paradox has meaning.
She looked up at me, tears tracing the contours of her hollow face. "Then… you did all this to send me away, didn't you? To send me to war?"
"Yes," I said, without hesitation. "Even in ruin, your purpose remains. Even in division, your being moves in harmony with what has been preordained."
Her lips parted in disbelief, but no sound came.
Every vibration, every tremor within her form was not chaos. It was order, the event already determined long before she could resist it.
Malachi had wanted this. No, he had known this.
And I, whether I wished it or not, had fulfilled it. Everything was orchestrated, woven with such precision that even my hesitation was part of the design.
Yet within this immutable order exists something resembling freedom.
That paradox, that delicate illusion, is what we call free will. It exists only because God is kind.
He allows motion, action, belief in shaping destiny. And yet, what we call choice may only follow the path already prepared.
That permission, granted by alignment rather than ignorance, gives meaning to what we call motion.
There are those who argue free will cannot exist if time is set, that the future being known removes the value of action.
They call such thinkers philosophers, mystics, or fools.
But it is not the belief that troubles them; it is the offense it brings to the illusion of autonomy.
As a king, I have learned this. Every decision I make is an echo of one already chosen. My judgments, my laws, even my compassion, predate my understanding.
They are not born of will, but of order. The laws I uphold do not merely predict; they remember.
They exist beyond my awareness, binding every moment to the one before it. It is an eternal sequence, repeating through divine rhythm.
And so I believe in harmony, though I find it absurd. The world may move freely and yet follow pre-established order. Both are true, and neither is illusory.
When I took her essence, when I stripped away that freedom from her manifested self, it was not domination.
It was alignment. It was principle. It was the rhythm of Set Time, the unfolding of an order in which all things move, and all things endure.
"Brother, could you… could you be so kind as to tell me what Father whispered in your ear that day?"
Ah, yes. That day, the day of my tenth birthday. Nicole had always been curious, always insistent.
I remember now, with a faint trace of amusement.
It was after she had run into trouble, fighting monsters against Mother's command, her defiance already setting her apart.
Father, ever patient, leaned close to me and said one simple thing, one that would echo across the years in ways I had not yet understood.
"Do not forget your sister."
A small, seemingly trivial admonition, yet it held more weight than any law, any edict, any force in this world.
It was a seed, a reminder of connection amidst the endless drift of power and principle. And I, as I now say to her, carry that memory still.
Her lips curled, a faint, trembling smile. She knelt her head in quiet reverence. "Brother, I shall fight. I shall serve. I shall live."
I drew in a slow, steady breath, letting the warmth of that moment settle in my chest, steadying both my joy and my expectation. "Then, for now on, I shall never forget you."