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Chapter 14 – The Watchers' Conclave
Far above the mortal lands, where no human eye could pierce and no god dared linger too long, a chamber of shifting obsidian hung between realms. It was not built, nor born, but willed into being at the dawn of rebellion. Here, the Watchers convened.
The air shimmered with wings both broken and unbroken. Twelve figures circled a void of living light, their forms cloaked in shadow, yet their eyes—burning with memory of heaven's fire—illuminated the chamber.
"The Veil has stirred," intoned Seraphiel, his voice like a blade dragged over stone. "A mortal has touched what should remain sealed."
A ripple of unease moved through the assembly.
"Not just any mortal," countered Nyxara, her form veiled in serpentine shadows. "He bears a mark older than empires. That sigil is not of man, nor of god. It is ours."
Whispers ignited—wings brushing, talons scraping. The name was unspoken, but all of them knew what she meant: the Sigil of Convergence, branded upon Kaelen's soul.
"He is a danger," growled Malphas, feathers blackened from the fires of his fall. "If the gods discover him, they will strike. If the mortals revere him, he will rise. Either path leads to ruin. Better he be extinguished now."
But across the chamber, another voice rose—measured, calm, almost tender. It belonged to Orien, the youngest of their order, who still carried fragments of heaven's light in his broken wings.
"And if he is the key?" Orien's gaze pierced the void at their center, as though seeing Kaelen through layers of reality. "We were bound for our transgressions, cast into shadow. The gods forgot us, but the Sigil remembers. Through him, perhaps, redemption lies."
Redemption. The word hung heavy. For the Watchers, cursed for loving mortals and teaching them forbidden arts, it was a promise long denied.
"Redemption?" Malphas spat the word like poison. "You would trust flesh and fear, a trembling boy, to undo eternity's chains?"
Orien did not flinch. "Not trust. Watch. Guide, if he proves worthy. And if he falters—end him before he becomes what you fear."
The chamber pulsed. The void at the center flickered, briefly revealing visions: Kaelen clutching the glowing sigil in the cavern, Lysera's eyes reflecting both terror and devotion, the Shadowborne's blade slashing against ancient stone. Fractures of possibility, each more dangerous than the last.
Nyxara leaned forward, her serpents hissing softly. "Then let it be decided. Some of us will protect him. Others will seek his death. Let fate be the crucible."
The Watchers lifted their wings, twelve shadows stretching across eternity. No consensus, no peace—only division sharpened to a blade.
And beyond the chamber, in the silence between realms, something older than the gods stirred awake at the sound of Kaelen's name.
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