(Part 1 of 2)
Far above Elyndra's clouds, where light thinned into thought and matter bowed to will, the Astral Zenith stirred.
It was not a place in any mortal sense. It was the convergence of every divinity that claimed rule over creation's bones—a sea of white flame and violet shadow where voices shaped constellations and stars hummed in obedience. Each god was a continent of intent, clothed in the ideas they embodied.
Today, the sea rippled.
Something alien had bloomed in the mortal plane—neither divine nor profane, but both, and it had spoken in the language of command.
The Goddess of Balance, whose eyes were twin scales of light and dark, turned from her eternal vigil. "Did you feel it?"
A sphere of black fire answered, voice deeper than mountains. The War Father, patron of dragons, growled, "A heartbeat. Draconic in shape, but tainted. It defied the call of lineage."
Across the firmament, the Crimson Mother of bloodlines—pale and beautiful, her lips the color of eclipsed suns—laughed softly. "Tainted? I would call it perfect. My gift sings within it."
The War Father's aura crackled. "Your gift alone does not sing so loudly. Something else entwined it—flame that remembers my first brood."
"And yet neither of us reigns in that flesh," she purred. "Tell me, War Father—does it frighten you that a mortal has bound your children's arrogance to my hunger?"
A third presence unfolded between them, vast and cold: the Seer of Threads, weaver of destinies. Every word from her mouth appeared as shining script across the void. "It is not merely bound. It is rewriting the loom."
The Balance Goddess' scales tilted. "A new law?"
"A mutation," said the Seer. "It devours definitions. If left unchecked, it could consume the concept of hierarchy itself."
The War Father's claws flexed, birthing sparks that became meteors. "Then we crush it."
The Crimson Mother smiled with bloodless patience. "Crush what you cannot find? The veil hides him. Our sight falters."
"Because he bears both our marks," the Balance Goddess murmured. "Neither flame nor night may look upon him without burning."
From the farthest edge of the Zenith came a whisper that silenced all others: an ancient, indifferent tone that belonged to none of them.
"Let it grow."
The command fell like frost. The constellations dimmed.
Even the gods bowed instinctively, for the speaker was older than divinity itself—the Nameless Architect, who built the heavens before memory began.
"Architect—" the Seer began.
"Every creation needs a counterweight," the voice said. "You have grown stagnant. Let the hybrid walk. When he reaches this height, then we shall speak."
Silence. The War Father's flames guttered. The Crimson Mother's laughter thinned into a hiss. The Architect's presence faded like smoke.
The gods exchanged looks that mortals would have called fear.
"Then it is true," the Seer whispered. "The prophecy of the Devouring Crown begins."
The Balance Goddess turned her gaze downward—through cloud, storm, and space—to the small figure standing in a mortal arena. His blood still glimmered faintly where flame and shadow had kissed.
"Balerion Drakmor Vantheus," she murmured. "Child of arrogance and hunger. You were never meant to exist. And yet—here you are."
She closed her scales.
Below, the first threads of divine interference began to drift toward the Dominion like falling stars.
Transition – Down to Elyndra
Obsidia Sanctum lay in uneasy celebration. Night had fallen, but the echoes of the duel still vibrated in the air. The common folk whispered legends before they were even written; the nobles whispered fears.
Inside the Drakmor Citadel, torches burned low. The throne chamber—usually alive with attendants—was sealed. Only three presences filled it: flame, shadow, and the uncertain pulse of something new.
Balerion knelt at the base of the dais, the hem of his cloak scorched. His right arm was still half-scaled, crimson light threading beneath the surface like molten veins. The silence between his parents was heavy enough to break worlds.
His mother spoke first. "Explain."
Her voice wasn't angry; it was frightened, though she would never admit it. Balerion kept his eyes lowered. "I don't know. It happened when Kael attacked. The fire didn't burn—it listened. Then it…fed."
Velkan's shadow leaned forward. "Fed on what?"
"Everything," Balerion said quietly. "Flame, blood, the air. It didn't choose—it took."
For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Azura descended the steps until she stood a breath away from him. "Let me see."
He raised his arm. She touched the scales lightly with one clawed finger. Light flared, answering her flame—and then devoured it. The small flame winked out, leaving only faint heat.
Azura stepped back, eyes widening. "Impossible."
Velkan's laughter was low and dangerous. "Not impossible. Unnatural. Our bloodlines were never meant to harmonize. You forced them, boy."
Balerion met his gaze. "I didn't force them. I stopped letting them force me."
Azura's breath caught. For an instant, pride broke through fear. Then the air trembled—thin threads of silver light slipped through the cracks in the roof, brushing against their skin like spider silk.
Velkan's head snapped upward. "Divine residue."
Azura's wings half-unfurled. "They're watching."
"Let them," Balerion said before he could stop himself.
Both parents turned toward him as if he had sworn treason.
The words had come unbidden, pulled from somewhere deeper than courage. "If they wish to see me, they will have to look through their own creation."
Velkan's eyes narrowed. "You speak like one of them."
"Maybe they've been whispering too long," he said. "Maybe I just decided to listen."
The silver threads recoiled from his aura, curling upward like mist fleeing fire. Somewhere above, unseen eyes blinked.
Azura closed her wings slowly. "You don't yet understand what hunts what you've become."
Balerion looked at the fading threads, then at his parents—their fear, their love, their terrible power. "Then teach me," he said. "Before they come."
Neither answered. Outside, thunder rolled though the sky was clear.