The chamber still buzzed from Xerathion's words, factions forming in the air like storm clouds. Some Outer Gods leaned forward, eager, whispering about hunting down the anomaly that threatened their dominion. Others, far older and far quieter, remained seated with cryptic smiles.
Then one voice broke through the murmur.
"We should go. If this Lucien claims the Primordial Void, then we strike him before his roots deepen."
Another laughed, a jagged sound.
"Yes… a fledgling who toys with inevitability? I say we kill him and scatter his essence back into the White."
They began to rise, cosmic forms reshaping into their battle guises, the council chamber trembling under their will—
And then.
"Now, now, everyone…"
The voice slid through the hall like a blade through silk. Smooth. Amused. Absolutely unhurried.
Every god froze.
From the yawning threshold of the council's chamber, a figure stepped inside. Pale skin, black hair spilling in quiet waves, eyes aglow with something deeper than eternity itself. His smile was casual, almost lazy, yet carried with it the unbearable weight of inevitability.
Lucien Dreamveil.
Hands clasped loosely behind his back, he strolled toward the center of the hall, gaze sweeping across the gods like a man browsing trinkets in a market.
"I heard," he said lightly, "that you wanted to see me." He gestured languidly with one hand, as though addressing children who had gotten too rowdy. "Sit down. No need for dramatics."
Malthior and Veloria, standing at the far edge of the chamber, stiffened at once. Veloria's lips curled into a grin, stars practically dancing in her eyes. So this is how he moves…
Xerathion stood, eyes blazing. His mantle of constellations flared, the chamber trembling as eternity itself seemed to lean forward.
Lucien only smiled wider.
"Oh? You want to hit me?" he mused, tilting his head. "Go on, then."
Xerathion's arm snapped forward, a strike that could have undone galaxies—
—and stopped.
The world itself froze.
A hush fell. Every god felt it: the halt. Time locked into silence, existence stilled at Lucien's whim. Only he, Malthior, Veloria, and Xerathion's trapped form still stirred in that impossible pause.
Lucien stepped closer, his smile thinning into something colder, sharper.
"Calm down, Xerathion," he said softly, his voice carrying through the stillness. "Don't make me kill you."
The words weren't shouted. They weren't a threat screamed in arrogance. They were spoken with such seriousness, such inevitability, that even the gods who had never feared in eons felt something twist in their core.
And then—
A crack.
Time fractured. Xerathion's will shattered the pause just before its end, his mantle flaring with impossible brilliance. His eyes locked with Lucien's… and then, after a heartbeat, he sat back down.
Lucien's smile returned instantly, warm and mocking all at once.
"See? That wasn't so bad." He raised a hand casually — and a throne of blackened stone and silver light slid across the floor, settling beneath him as though the chamber itself obeyed. He sat, legs crossed, smirking at the gods arrayed before him. "I'm just here to see who has a problem with me."
Malthior took position on his right, helm bowed in silent deference. Veloria stepped to his left, eyes gleaming, leaning slightly toward her companion.
"…Is this how our Lord always moves?" she whispered, awe dripping from her voice. "With stars in his wake?"
Malthior exhaled, shoulders rigid, his irritation barely hidden.
"Shut up, idiot," he muttered. Then, after a pause, his lips curled into a rare, sharp smirk. "That's not even his true body. Just a clone. But yes… that's exactly who he is."
Veloria's grin widened, her chest tightening with an emotion she'd never admit aloud.
And in the center of the council chamber, Lucien leaned back on his conjured throne, eyes aglow with white fire, and smiled as if he owned them all already.