Chapter 4 – The Pantheon's Council
The Astral Pantheon floated beyond mortal sight, a grand palace of crystal and flame suspended in an endless sea of stars. Here, the gods of this world gathered in a circle of thrones, their voices shaking heaven and earth.
The Goddess of Dawn rose first, her golden hair blazing like the morning sun.
"This power cannot be ignored. The crystal test revealed what should be impossible. A child bearing Balance."
The God of Storms slammed his fist against the armrest, lightning splitting the ceiling.
"If Balance has returned, we must destroy it before it grows. Do you not remember the Old Pantheon? The chaos it brought? A god who walks among mortals will unmake the world!"
The Goddess of Rivers lifted her calm eyes, her voice like flowing water.
"And yet… was Balance not the only force that ever kept us from war? Perhaps this child is not our doom, but our salvation."
A ripple of laughter echoed, cold and sharp. From the shadows emerged the God of Night and Chains, his eyes glinting crimson.
"Salvation? Or a vessel. If the boy carries the remnants of Balance, perhaps he may also carry… more. The Fallen Primordial stirs in the abyss. With the right hand to guide him, this mortal could become our weapon."
Gasps rippled through the assembly. Even to speak of the Primordial—an ancient being sealed at the birth of their world—was forbidden.
The Goddess of Dawn rose again, her voice blazing.
"Enough. We cannot let greed poison judgment. This child must be watched, yes, but also protected. If Balance has chosen to return, then it is by the will of Fate itself."
The God of Storms sneered. "And if the boy resists that fate? If he becomes what the Old Balance once was?"
A silence fell. Then the God of Night and Chains smiled, his teeth gleaming like daggers.
"Then… we will see whether a mortal child can truly defy the will of the gods."
The council dissolved in discord, some gods swearing to shield the boy, others to hunt him. Above the mortal world, the Pantheon's eyes turned downward, their attention locked upon a small, forgotten village.
---
Meanwhile, in Breya, Eryndor stirred in his sleep. His dreams burned with visions—
Flames consuming the sky.
Shadows binding stars.
And divine eyes, endless and merciless, gazing directly into his soul.
When he woke, sweat dripping down his brow, he whispered into the darkness:
"They're coming".