The Celestial Pantheon had not convened in millennia.
There had never been a need. War, prophecy, and bance flowed as they always had. The Cycle repeated itself. The gods ruled from their celestial thrones, unshaken, unquestioned, eternal. And yet, now, they had gathered.
For the first time since the dawn of time itself, the Upper, Middle, and Lower Pantheons stood together. The Halls of Divinity—a great ethereal structure beyond mortal sight—was filled with their presence. The golden radiance of Sorion's throne stood empty. And the gods felt something they had never known. Something they had believed was beneath them.
Fear.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Vaelora, Goddess of Fate, stood at the center of the hall, her fingers trembling against the strands of destiny that wove through the air.
The threads that had once dictated every war, every empire, every death, and every birth—
Were unraveling in her hands. "This..." Her voice faltered. "This cannot be." Nemira, Goddess of Death, stepped forward, her robes flowing like mist. "The cycle is breaking." Her voice was quiet. Uncertain. "Souls are vanishing before they reach my domain." Inveros, the God of Knowledge, turned his gaze toward the empty throne of Sorion. "This is impossible," he muttered. "Gods do not disappear." Tyrios, God of War, clenched his fists. "Then where is he?"
No one answered.
Because no one remembered.
They knew that something was missing. They knew that Sorion had ruled over them. They could feel his presence lingering like a name on the tip of the tongue. But when they tried to remember his face, his voice, his will— There was nothing. Not silence. Not absence. Just nothing. And gods were not meant to fear the unknown.
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The Halls of Divinity shuddered.
A ripple of something unfathomable passed through the sacred halls, distorting the air itself. Vaelora flinched. The threads of fate in her hands snapped. She gasped, her form flickering between existence and something lesser—something fragile. Inveros' gaze darkened. He turned his eyes toward the heavens, reaching out with his divine sight. And then— He staggered backward. His eyes widened. His breath caught. "What..." His voice shook. "What is that?" The others turned to him. "What do you see?" Nemira asked, stepping forward. Inveros' voice was barely a whisper. "A name."
The gods froze.
A name?
A name had entered their domain? A name that had not been written by them? That was impossible. Inveros trembled. Because he understood something that the others had not yet realized. This was not an attack. This was not a war. This was an intrusion. Something had stepped into the realm of the divine.
And the universe was trying to erase it. And failing.
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The Arrival of the Inquisition
The air in the Halls of Divinity colpsed. A soundless shattering—a break in reality that could not be undone.
And then—
Something stood at the entrance of the sacred hall. A figure. Draped in bck. Shifting, flickering, as if it was not bound by shape or form. The gods turned as one. The power of divinity surged, weapons of celestial might manifesting in their hands. A dozen gods prepared to erase the intruder from existence. But then— The being spoke. And the heavens trembled. "What is a god?" The words burned. Vaelora staggered. The threads of fate in her hands disintegrated. Tyrios dropped his bde, clutching his skull. Nemira let out a strangled gasp—because she could no longer feel death. The entity took a step forward.
"I am IX'ZYRETH," it whispered.
And the moment it spoke its name, all of creation screamed.
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The Fall of Vaelora
Vaelora gasped, her hands cwing at the empty air, trying—desperately—to hold onto something. The fabric of fate, the threads that had dictated all things— They were gone. She turned toward her kin, her divine brothers and sisters, her voice trembling. "My visions," she whispered. "They are empty." Her breath hitched. "I cannot see the future." And in that moment— She ceased to exist. She did not fall. She did not burn. She did not even fade. One moment, she was there. And then— She never had been. The gods turned in horror.
Their sister was gone. Not dead. Not erased. She had never been written into history. And now, they all felt it. The war was not coming. The war had already been lost.
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Inveros gripped his skull.
His archives—the infinite records of existence—were crumbling.
The past was being rewritten. The future was being erased. And the Thanatarchy... The Thanatarchy had no pce within the ws of the universe. Because it was not part of the universe. It was not bound by their rules. It did not belong to fate. And if something was not bound by fate— Then fate had already lost.
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IX'ZYRETH'S FINAL WORDS
The High Inquisitor of Unbeing stepped forward.
The gods—beings who had ruled for eons—staggered backward.
IX'ZYRETH's gaze swept across them, as if seeing something small, something insignificant. And then, it whispered. "Your existence was not necessary." The world shook. The heavens fractured. The divine halls colpsed. And the gods screamed.
