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Chapter 18 – The Conclave of Watchers
Far above the mortal plane, where stars bled their light into endless void, a citadel of crystal and shadow floated upon nothingness. Its spires curled like frozen flames, and its heart pulsed with threads of forgotten constellations. This was the Sanctum of the Watchers—sealed to mortal sight, open only to those who had endured eternity itself.
Tonight, after centuries of silence, the council gathered.
One by one, figures emerged from fissures in the void. Some took the shape of men and women wreathed in robes that shimmered like night skies. Others were less merciful to the human eye—winged colossi of fire, serpents woven from living smoke, or beings whose faces were masks of shifting runes. Their presence bent the Sanctum's walls, the air vibrating with a pressure that could shatter a mountain below.
At the head of the crescent table stood Eryndor, the First Watcher. His voice was neither loud nor quiet, yet every being present felt its command.
"The Seal trembles," he said, his silver gaze sweeping the chamber. "A mortal has awakened the Flame of the First Song."
A ripple of murmurs tore through the conclave. Some voices hissed in contempt, others whispered in fear. A Watcher with eyes like molten gold slammed his hand upon the table, sparks scattering.
"This cannot be! The Flame was locked beyond mortal reach. To allow a human child to bear it is madness."
"Madness," another agreed, her form shimmering between a woman and a vast raven. "If the Flame spreads, the cycle will shatter. Do you not remember the last Rebellion? The heavens burned for a thousand years."
But not all voices rose in condemnation.
From the shadows, Maerion, the Silent Veil, spoke with a calm that chilled the chamber. "And yet… the Flame did not choose us. It chose him. Perhaps the pattern requires a new piece. To crush him now would be to blind ourselves to the will of the Song."
Gasps echoed, though some shifted uneasily, as though they too had thought the same but dared not say it aloud.
A younger Watcher, his armor like a sea of shattered mirrors, leaned forward. "You speak as though this boy is destined. He may simply be a crack in the prison wall. If the Nephilim stir, if the gods awaken from their slumber—then it is not a boy we should fear, but what follows him."
Silence stretched. The chamber dimmed, the constellations in the walls flickering like candles in a storm.
Eryndor raised his hand. "Enough. We are not here to quarrel like mortals. The question stands before us: does the bearer of the Flame live… or die?"
The words struck the air like a blade. For the first time in an age, the Watchers were divided.
Some slammed their assent to death upon the crystal table, their voices thundering: End him before he becomes the spark of another war. Others whispered Wait. Watch. The Song has not yet revealed its measure.
It was then that a figure who had remained silent until now stirred. Cloaked in deep indigo, with a hood that veiled even his shadow, The Ninth Watcher spoke. His voice was softer than ash falling into water, but it carried further than any roar.
"Whichever path we take, the worlds below will burn. But mark this—" His unseen eyes turned toward the void, toward the faint light of the mortal realm. "The boy is not alone. Already, the Fates bend to shield him. Kill him now, and you will not slay destiny. You will forge its vengeance."
The chamber froze. Even Eryndor faltered.
Before another word could be spoken, the Sanctum itself shuddered. A horn, not from mortal earth but from the deep reaches of forgotten creation, reverberated through the void. The crystal walls cracked with light. For a heartbeat, every Watcher felt something they had long abandoned—fear.
The Seal was not merely trembling.
It was breaking.
And far below, a boy and his companion stood in the forest, unaware that the eyes of eternity had turned upon them.
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