"Now then," Zerathos asked, his voice quiet yet heavy with threat, "what brings you here, Ray?"
The Emperor of the Realms did not descend into the mortal realm for leisure. His presence carried weight, and Zerathos knew his brother too well. There was a reason he was here, and yet, Ray took his time, as always.
"Brother," Ray said softly, his tone gentle, almost affectionate.
Unlike the other Otaenians, Ray and Zerathos were Created Pairs, two souls born of one divine spark. After Origin's 'death,' every Otaenian had been forged this way: one Warborn, one Pureblood. Though all Otaenians called one another siblings, only the paired ones shared that sacred tether, a bond that transcended power and pride.
For a fleeting second, warmth stirred in Zerathos' chest at the word brother. But he crushed it, as he always did. He was the Devil, ruler of two realms, a name whispered only in dread. There was no room in his heart for affection.
"Spare me your hypocritical sentiment," he said coldly, brushing off the echo of old feelings. "What are you doing here, Ray?"
It wasn't just a question, it was a warning. If Ray didn't answer, Zerathos would banish him from this realm without hesitation. The Primordial Spirit might be weak, but with his will, he could make it obey.
Ray felt the tension building, the realm itself humming with Zerathos' barely leashed wrath.
"All these aeons," Ray murmured, sorrow lacing his words, "and you still haven't let go of your grudges, brother?"
Zerathos' dark gaze met his. "Would you have, if you were me?"
Ray sighed. He had expected that answer — he knew that bitterness well. "You rule your realms with an iron will. The demons would march at your command. The gods and our brothers, those Otaenians who followed you into exile, they would face Ether itself just to please you." His voice broke slightly. "But what do I have, brother?"
Zerathos' eyes narrowed. He was Warborn; compassion did not come easily. "You have my throne," he said. "You are Emperor of all the realms."
And it was true. As Emperor, Ray held dominion above all. Yet he ruled from a throne that chained him. To challenge Zerathos' sovereignty over the Netherworld or Primordial Realm would ignite another war, one he could not win. Purebloods did not triumph over Warborns in battle. Only in wit.
"With your strength towering above mine," Ray said quietly, "do you truly think I would dare challenge you? And if I did… what would become of the realms?"
The Void loomed beyond their walls. To start a war within would be to hand creation to the abyss.
Zerathos' anger flickered, replaced by a brief, unreadable silence. He saw the weight pressing upon his brother, the laws, the burdens, the endless duty. Ray, bound by order. He, Zerathos, free as the storm. And yet… even freedom cannot soothe a stolen crown.
"How dare you raise your voice at me, brother?" Zerathos roared suddenly. His eyes ignited crimson, and from his form burst pure Ether, the raw power of the Warborn.
The air shattered.
The bar erupted in screams. Mortals gasped for air, clutching their throats. A man shattered a glass and drove it into his companion's neck. Others clawed at their faces, tore at their skin, stabbed themselves with bottles and knives, trapped in a nightmare made real.
Such was the nature of a Warborn's aura, madness incarnate.
Ray's eyes darkened. He whispered a word, and time froze. The world fell silent. Every mortal hung suspended, faces twisted in fear.
"You should mind your aura, brother," Ray said calmly. "No mortal can withstand it. Even gods would falter beneath such wrath."
Zerathos gave a hollow chuckle. He knew the truth of it. Origin had asked the Mother to create the Purebloods because His firstborn children, the Warborn were too dangerous. Perfect strength, bound to imperfect hearts.
Ray surveyed the devastation with quiet sadness. "We can't leave things like this."
He lifted a hand. The air shimmered. Time rewound, unspooling the terror, mending glass, undoing wounds. Laughter and music returned as though nothing had ever happened.
Zerathos' gaze lingered on the mortals, eyes unreadable.
Ray smiled faintly. "You know, my son takes after you."
Zerathos said nothing.
"He's proud, fierce, reckless. Without Zelda guiding him, he might've become a mirror of you. They say he is the Reincarnation of Origin, though even he doubts it. But in heart and will, he is Warborn."
Still silence. The Devil did not appreciate jest.
Ray exhaled slowly, then spoke words heavy with consequence. "Lucian is here."
The cup slipped from Zerathos' fingers, crashing against the counter. His expression hardened, disbelief giving way to fury.
"Who willed it?" he demanded.