From the dizzying precipice of the celestial roof, the world below didn't just mock the laws of geography; it strangled them.
The heavy banks of clouds, usually the ceiling of the mortal world, served as the floor here. As they parted, torn asunder by the sheer pressure of the descending chariot, a vista of staggering immensity assaulted Toram's retinas. This was no mere palace. It was a terrestrial ocean of stone and magic, a monolith of civilization stretching relentlessly from one hazily defined horizon to the other.
Toram's knuckles turned the color of old bone as she strangled the hull of the sky-cleaving chariot. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she refused to blink. She couldn't.
Beneath them lay a sprawl so vast it defied the primitive measurements of her homeworld. Spires pierced the atmosphere like needles of light. Bridges arched over floating islands, defying gravity with an arrogance that made her stomach churn. Against this titanic nation, she wasn't just small; she was microscopic. A biological error. A speck of dust suspended above a self-contained universe whose borders dissolved into infinite mist.
The chariot, a marvel of unearthly engineering, glided on celestial winds that roared like a captured hurricane. Its steeds—magnificent creatures with coats like spilled milk and manes of woven starlight—didn't run. They rowed through the air. Their hooves struck invisible currents, sending ripples of distorted space outward with every stride. Glowing with pearlescent light, they dipped their noses toward the earth, descending like falling stars aimed at the heart of the world.
As they breached the lower skies, the air pressure shifted, popping Toram's ears. They skimmed over battlements that scraped the belly of the clouds, black stone wet with atmospheric moisture.
Beyond the walls, the true scale of the populace revealed itself.
It wasn't a crowd. It wasn't a gathering. It was a geological feature made of flesh and steel.
A sea.
Myriads of warriors blotted out the city's paving stones. From this height, they looked like iron filings drawn to a magnet. A forest of spears, an endless ocean of polished armor reflecting the sun until the ground itself seemed to be made of liquid fire.
The chariot wheeled around a central spire, banking hard. Toram's stomach lurched into her throat. Then, with a grace that belied their size, the hooves kissed the ground.
The reaction was instantaneous. Absolute.
BOOM.
It wasn't a sound; it was a physical impact. Hundreds of thousands of armored knees hit the stone in unison.
The earth shuddered. The vibration traveled up through the wheels of the chariot, through the soles of Toram's boots, and rattled her teeth in her skull. Dust rose in a perfect, concentric ring around the plaza, shaken loose by the sheer weight of devotion.
At the vanguard stood Commander Kaduel. He stepped forward, his wings tucked tight against his back, his presence silencing the wind itself. He drew a breath that seemed to suck the air from the plaza.
"Bow before the Untouchable!" Kaduel's roar tore through the silence, amplified by magic or sheer lung capacity. "Submit to the God of the Lightning Tribe, King Saruel!"
The command reverberated like celestial thunder, bouncing off the canyon-like walls of the palace. The army responded not with a chaotic shout, but with a disciplined, harmonious roar that cracked the sky.
"To the Mighty! To the Thunder! We submit to the Invincible God of Lightning!"
The sound hit Toram like a physical blow, a wall of compressed air that forced her to step back. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She turned slowly, her neck stiff, to look at the recipient of this terrifying adoration.
Saruel stood amidst the cacophony, utterly still.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He didn't acknowledge the trembling earth or the weight of the glory heaped upon him.
His eyes, dark pools that seemed to swallow the light, remained fixed on a point far beyond the kneeling crowd. He was staring into nothingness. Into a void only he could see. He stood there like a force of nature—a mountain, a storm, a glacier—indifferent to the applause of mortals. The worship washed over him and found no purchase.
Then, the dream twisted.
Toram blinked. The ivory throne of the chariot darkened. A golden hue, rich and heavy, spread across its surface like rapid rust, transmuting the seat into solid bullion in the span of a heartbeat.
Simultaneously, the heaving chests of the horses stilled. The sweat on their flanks evaporated into thin wisps of steam.
Crack. Snap.
The sound of flash-freezing matter. In seconds, warm flesh calcified. Wild eyes turned to cold, unblinking gems. The breathing beasts became lifeless statues, frozen in eternal majesty, their muscles locked in a permanent display of power.
Toram didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. The scientist in her, once tethered to physics, logic, and the immutable laws of thermodynamics, had long since drowned in the absurdity of this realm. In this world, miracles were mundane. Seeing was believing, even if it defied understanding.
Saruel stepped down from the golden throne.
CLANG.
The army clashed spears against shields—a singular, metallic note that rent the air and left a ringing silence in its wake. Toram hurried to follow, her legs feeling like jelly, alighting to stand at Saruel's right side. She felt exposed, a fraud in plain clothes standing next to a deity wrapped in lightning and steel.
Saruel placed a hand over his chest.
Gravity surrendered.
Thousands of winged warriors in the front ranks lifted a meter off the ground, no effort visible on their faces. They unfurled massive, feathered wings—white, grey, and storm-black—and beat them in unison.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
The air whipped into a frenzy. It was a silent hymn of gratitude written in wind, a breeze that cooled the sweat on Toram's brow.
Kaduel fluttered his own wings, landing softly before his King. The loyal soldier and the weary god stood face to face. Saruel reached out, his hand resting lightly on Kaduel's shoulder. For a second, the god vanished, replaced by a man touching a brother. A flicker of humanity amidst the grandeur.
Kaduel lowered his eyes, his massive frame trembling slightly. He hesitated, his lips parting, then closing, then parting again.
"My Lord! All twelve tribes..." Kaduel's voice faltered, cracking under an emotion that had no place on a battlefield. "They are waiting for your command."
The silence that followed was heavier than the roar of the army. It pressed down on the plaza, suffocating the celebration.
"I know."
Saruel's voice wasn't the thunder the legion expected. It wasn't the boom of a conqueror. It was a jagged whisper, like dry leaves scraping against stone.
"Kaduel... take Dr. Toram. Show her to a chamber where she may rest."
The mask of the invincible god cracked.
Toram saw it. She was close enough to see the micro-tremor in his jaw. The way the light died in his eyes, replaced by a dull, aching gray. Beneath the shining armor, beneath the myth, the King was bleeding out. Not blood, but spirit.
Kaduel bowed low, hiding his face, perhaps to conceal his own grief. Saruel didn't look back. He turned toward the restricted wing of the palace, his sanctuary of solitude.
But the agile, predator-like grace was gone.
His steps dragged. The heels of his boots scraped the stone, a sound of exhaustion. His shoulders, broad enough to carry the sky, slumped forward, burdened by an invisible weight no magic could lift. He walked not like a king returning to his throne, but like a prisoner returning to his cell.
Toram watched him disappear into the shadows of the great archway. The darkness swallowed him whole.
The realization hit her cold and hard, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone.
He wasn't a god basking in glory. He was a monarch who had swallowed the bitter bile of defeat twice, forced to maintain a lie that was eating him alive from the inside out. He was an actor on a stage the size of a nation, performing a script that broke his heart with every line.
"Forgive me, Dr. Toram! Shall we go?"
Kaduel's gentle voice pulled her from the abyss. She blinked, shaking her head to clear the fog. She looked up at the Commander—a beautiful monster, a human face framed by celestial feathers that still bristled with residual energy.
She wanted to ask. She wanted to comfort. She wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. But the air was too thick with tension, too fragile. One wrong word could shatter the illusion they were all desperately holding together.
She simply nodded.
As they walked toward her quarters, passing murals of victories that now felt like mockeries, Toram's body moved forward, but her mind spooled backward.
The decisions she had made. The calculations she had run. The arrogance of her interference—wielding her scientific knowledge like a weapon in a realm she didn't understand, crossing lines she never should have touched. The puzzle pieces clicked into a horrific picture.
"This is all my fault," she murmured.
The words were barely a whisper, carried away by the wind, destined to be lost in the vastness of the palace. But to her ears, they sounded like a thunderclap louder than the army's roar.
She glanced at Kaduel, waiting for a rebuttal. A reassurance. A "No, Doctor, it was fate." Anything to absolve her.
But Kaduel said nothing.
He stared straight ahead, his jaw set, his wings tight against his back. His silence weighed heavier than any accusation. It pressed down on her chest, suffocating her.
Her confession hung in the air, unanswered and unforgiven. A final nail in the coffin of her conscience. She walked on, trapped in the magical opulence of Rama, accompanied only by the rhythmic clinking of Kaduel's armor and the screaming sound of her own condemning thoughts.