The laughter faded, replaced by a tension so thick it clung to the marrow of the chamber. The serpentine god still writhed in pain from Malthior's strike, but none moved to aid him. None dared.
Slowly, almost lazily, one of the lesser Outer Gods shifted into a humanoid shape — skin pale as frost, hair cascading like liquid silver, eyes twin voids without light. Others followed. Cloaked figures, armored titans, beings that resembled men and women but radiated distortions that made reality groan beneath their presence.
They had taken humanoid forms not for the sake of Malthior or Veloria, but for themselves. This was how the Council spoke. Beasts and concepts had their place in battlefields, but in the hall, they wore shapes close to man. It was… tradition.
Malthior adjusted his grip on his sword, standing tall. Veloria, by contrast, folded her arms and let her wings curl neatly behind her, violet flame eyes studying the assembly like a queen indulging lesser nobles.
"So this is it?" Veloria's voice cut through the silence, sharp and dripping with disdain. "A council of gods so mighty… yet they sit and watch like idle spectators at a play. Tell me, is this what eternity does? Turns divinity into jaded husks?"
The chamber darkened.
A ripple passed through the Council as one of the seated titans moved. For the first time in eons, a presence greater than storms, older than the roots of Ydris Solmare, stood.
He rose slowly, every motion a weight that pressed against all existence. His form shifted from abyssal smoke into a man of impossible stature — hair like molten gold, eyes as black as collapsed stars, his frame clad in a mantle woven from constellations.
Gasps — actual gasps — echoed across the chamber. Even the stronger Outer Gods stirred, some sitting straighter, others leaning forward with smirks tugging at their lips.
The murmurs spread like wildfire:
"Xerathion…"
"He speaks?"
"…after so long?"
Xerathion, called the Pale Crown of Eternity, had not risen since the last collapse of universes untold. For him to move now… meant something.
He regarded Veloria, not with rage, not with scorn, but with the kind of quiet amusement that weighed heavier than wrath. His voice, when it came, was deep and slow, yet carried enough resonance to crack entire dimensions.
"Little shadow…" His words rumbled across the chamber, every syllable thrumming with authority. "You mock eternity, yet fail to grasp the burden of it. Sit long enough at this table, and you will see all things decay into sameness."
Veloria smirked, unflinching, though even she felt the chill of his gaze ripple through her essence.
"So the Pale Crown still remembers how to speak. Tell me, then… what do you see in Lucien's inevitability?"
The chamber went dead still.
Every god's eyes turned to Xerathion. Some looked shocked — horrified that Veloria dared invoke Lucien's name in such a way before him. Others, the slyer ones, smirked, waiting like wolves in tall grass to see how this would unravel.
Malthior, beside her, ground his teeth beneath his helm. Veloria… one day your tongue will dig us into a grave even I can't defend you from.
But Xerathion only smiled faintly. A rare, dangerous smile that carried no warmth.
"…I see," he said, "a storm that even eternity cannot outlast."
The Council erupted. Voices clashed, laughter mingled with outrage. The hall of gods shook under the weight of their discourse. Some shouted that Lucien was a blasphemy, a false anomaly that must be ended. Others, those older and far more cunning, chuckled — amused that Xerathion himself had broken silence.
Veloria tilted her head, hiding the satisfaction in her eyes. She had gotten what she wanted: the Council divided, the spotlight now cast on Lucien without her lifting a blade.
Malthior sighed within his helm. Damn woman. Our Lord better reward me with patience itself if I must endure her antics forever.