Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Eleven: The God Who Watched the End
Far beyond the reach of mortal constellations twinkling serenely in the night sky and far away from the magnificent thrones of divine beings, there existed a realm so incredibly remote that even the most powerful of gods approached it with trepidation, opting to avoid any discussions surrounding its existence. This enigmatic realm lay beyond the awe-inspiring gilded spires of the Celestial Citadel, which rose majestically into the ether, a testament to the grandeur and beauty that the gods had crafted over millennia. It was here, at the very edge of everything-the precipice where creation met oblivion, where the fabric of time folded inward upon itself and eternity exhaled its final sigh-that stood a solitary tower, a structure hewn from the very essence of silence itself.
Within the walls of this towering edifice, there resided a solitary god who had never graced any throne with his presence or been celebrated with accolades. His name was Lureth, the God of Witness, an observer of cosmic events and the guardian of all that was, is, and might yet be. Unlike other deities who commanded the blazing inferno of fire or the tumultuous fury of storms, Lureth's dominion was far more insidious and cruel: he was entrusted with the monumental task of observation. It was not within his purview to interfere in the affairs of mortals or gods alike, nor was he allowed the luxury of uttering words of comfort or judgment. Instead, he existed to bear witness, tasked with the heavy responsibility of remembering that which others chose to let slip from their consciousness into the abyss of forgetfulness.
Now, as he perched atop his lonely tower, Lureth felt a palpable tension in the air: the end was approaching. His ethereal eyes, which mirrored the limitless expanse of gray and were imbued with the weight of infinite insights, surveyed the vast, intricate tapestry of existence before him-a cosmic landscape replete with moments of beauty and despair. He observed with a profound sense of foreboding that Kazuren, the Forsaken Flame-a name once banished from the annals of memory-had brutally re-entered the woven strands of fate, like a needle piercing through fabric. The very essence of celestial order trembled with each of Kazuren's footsteps as he inexorably re-threaded himself into a narrative that had sought to forget him.
Lureth traced the scars etched into the fabric of the cosmos with the delicate precision of a poet deciphering the meanings of forbidden verses. It was evident that wherever Kazuren roamed, mortals were plagued with haunting dreams of golden eyes and gods cried out in anguished silence. The echoes of mortality were already shifting, for Vaelios had succumbed to the chaos, and it was merely a matter of time before others would follow in his wake, swept away by the tide of destiny Kazuren had stirred.
Hovering above a great scroll of remembrance unfurled before him-tattered yet pulsating with an otherworldly energy-Lureth pressed his finger against the parchment, an action steeped in the weight of eternity itself. In that moment, a single word emerged from the void, resonating with implications of consequence that reverberated across eons:
Kazuren.
The name was inscribed once more, not out of an exercise of free will but as a stark reminder of the unforgiving consequences of choices made long ago.
Meanwhile, within the majestic yet now trembling heart of the Celestial Citadel, panic ignited like a relentless wildfire, consuming all in its path. The once luminous thrones, embodiments of divine majesty, now flickered with an unsettling dimness, their brilliance paling in the face of looming dread. The gods-who once presided over the fabric of reality with unmatched power-fell silent, their voices stifled by an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
In the very center of the fractured dome, where the shimmering aura of divinity had once thrived, stood Erethur, a deity whose gaze was distant and clouded with apprehension. He sensed an alien presence threading its way into the tapestry of existence, a noticeable fraying at the edges of a once seamless design, and he understood implicitly that it was not solely Kazuren's return that disrupted the delicate balance of order. No, it was something much darker and far more insidious that had chosen to follow in his wake.
The prophecy of the Burned Spiral loomed ominously, casting a shadow that stretched far beyond the mere arrival of Kazuren. Iserion, the seer whose insight was revered among the pantheon, stood by Erethur's side, confirming the terrible truth revealed by the Loom of Threads. He spoke in hushed tones, his voice trembling with disbelief. "The Spiral burns through all fate," he murmured, the depth of despair evident in his tone. "Even we, the architects of destiny, are not spared from its reckoning."
And beneath their anxious thoughts and the swirling disarray of celestial power, something slumbered, stirring toward awakening.
Meanwhile, Kazuren found himself standing atop the shattered remnants of the Vault's outer ring, his cloak billowing around him, a mesmerizing sight as it caught fire only to extinguish in an endless cycle-a manifestation of his very essence, a blend of flame and ash. He gazed toward the horizon, where the dawn should have ushered in a new day, but instead, all he beheld was an expanse drenched in ominous red, an unsettling omen that churned deep within him.
The world remembered him once more-not merely through fleeting dreams or remnants of ancient relics, but through a profound longing that echoed in the hearts of the oppressed, the forsaken, and the ones who had been cast aside. They whispered his name like a fervent prayer, not intended for salvation, but rather for the reckoning that seemed inevitable.
With each step he took forward, he was not advancing toward conquest; he was journeying toward a deeper truth, one that had long been obscured by layers of deception and fear. And as he moved, he cultivated his awareness that in the distance, another god was watching him-a god who had borne witness to all things yet had chosen silence.
Kazuren paused mid-stride, haunted by the realization of Lureth's presence. He lifted his voice, soft yet resolute, whispering to the unfriendly winds that swept around him, "Then watch closely, for this time, I do not intend to stop."
And in that tower, perched at the edge of the impending end, Lureth closed his weary eyes, allowing a single silver tear to trace the contours of his cheek. It was not birthed from sorrow or despair, but rather a poignant acknowledgment of memory-a tear shed in recognition of what had been and what was soon to come: a cataclysm that would ripple across existence itself, leaving indelible marks on the fabric of reality.
To be continued...