Aevarion stood in the center of the Atrium of Accord, where the light of dying stars burned slowly above and the floor was a mirror to all time. It showed no reflection, only possibilities. The air shimmered with the weight of ages unspoken.
The gods had gathered. All of them.
Some had not walked the mortal realms in millennia. Others had never spoken aloud since the First Flame was lit. But they had come—not by choice, but by the pull of something deeper than prophecy. Something older than fate.
At the heart of it all was a name.
Vorath.
The Council Begins
Kael, robed in funerary black, stood with arms crossed. Shadows wept silently from beneath his hood. "He commands the dead in ways I cannot," he said. "He speaks the tongue of endings as if it were his birthright."
Lytharra's golden light trembled. "He remembers Lyssara."
The God of Storms slammed his fist into the mirrored floor, cracking a future that had not yet happened. "Let us strike him down. Before he tears the realms apart."
"No," said Aevarion.
All turned to him.
"He stands at a fulcrum," the Timekeeper intoned. "There is a second part to the Ash Prophecy—one hidden where flame was stolen. Without it, none here see the full path."
The Goddess of Fate turned her veiled eyes upon him. "And yet, you have seen it."
Aevarion nodded slowly. "I see all paths. And in most, we perish."
A hush spread.
The God of War laughed, sharp and cold. "Then let us die with fire in our veins. I will cleave his skull and offer it to the stars."
Kael's tone was leaden. "You cannot slay what is already beyond death."
The Forgotten Ones stirred uneasily. One of them—little more than a wisp of divinity now—murmured, "He was one of us once… or something close."
Lytharra's eyes burned. "There is still a trace of the man he was. The one who loved Lyssara. The one who fell into shadow not by hunger, but by heartbreak."
The God of Storms growled. "Do you pity him?"
"I understand him," she said quietly.
Aevarion raised his hand, and time slowed. The winds ceased. The floor stilled. The stars held their breath.
"I have seen a truth buried deep," he said. "Vorath is not the end. He is the reckoning. The breaking of false ages. And if we slay him… we may sever the only thread that leads beyond ruin."
The Final Omen
A silence deeper than any before settled.
And then, from the heart of the mirror beneath their feet, a voice rose. Not one of theirs. Not mortal. Not divine.
It was ancient.
It was remembered.
"Two souls bearing light shall kneel before the throne of night…""And one shall rise above gods."
The floor cracked. Light split. Visions surged across the hall:
Kaelen, his eyes full of doubt and rage, standing before Vorath.
Seralyn, weeping over a dying world.
A black sword raised against the heavens.
And beneath it all, a woman wreathed in flame… Lyssara, or something wearing her name.
The visions ended.
The mirror sealed.
And Aevarion spoke the final words of the book.
"The prophecy is not ours to end…It is ours to remember."
End of Book I
Volume Title: "Throne of Night"