Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Twelve: The Sound That Breaks Eternity
There are moments so profoundly still that they seem to transcend the very fabric of time itself, lingering in a state of suspension, untouched by the hustle and bustle of the world around them. These are the instances where silence transforms into an almost palpable presence, enveloping everything within its grasp. In such moments, the universe appears to hold its breath, as if waiting for a revelation, a whisper, or perhaps the dawning of a new truth. This was one such moment, heavy with expectancy and the weight of ages past, where every heartbeat felt like an eternity.
Spanning across the fractured expanse of the celestial sphere, an unnatural stillness descended like ashes from the heavens in a slow, deliberate fall. The once vibrant and euphoric tapestry of the skies, woven with divine stars that shimmered with life and light, now hung in a muted, blood-hued melancholy. It resembled a canvas that had been scarred by some invisible inferno, scorching the very essence of creation. The constellations, those ancient guides of myth and fate, had ceased their timeless dance, halting in their tracks as if they had succumbed to the weight of despair. They did not twinkle with the usual vitality; instead, they simply... watched, their gaze heavy with foreboding.
What followed was an auditory anomaly that felt as though it could grasp the very threads of existence. It was not the rumble of thunder that one would expect in moments of impending storm, nor was it the whisper of wind that rustles through the trees, coaxing the world to awaken. No, this sound was something far more primordial, a resonance steeped in ancient lore, an omen both significant and final. It marked the shatter of eternity itself, a singular sound that reverberated with the finality of all things. It did not need to echo through the ether, for it was a proclamation that needed no repetition.
This was no ordinary sound; it was the heart-wrenching scream of the Divine Seal—the oldest and most sacred law known to the cosmos—that had finally cracked under pressure, signaling the collapse of boundaries that had long stood impenetrable.
In the profound depths of the Celestial Citadel, a hallowed sanctuary rarely trodden by even the highest of the divine, a door that was never meant to yield began to open. It cracked open not through any key that had ever been forged, nor from a hand that had dared to touch its polished surface. No, it simply surrendered, as if responding to a long-forgotten call. A lightless gust flowed forth, rolling out like a haunting sigh from the very dawn of creation itself, sweeping through grand marble halls that were the very bones of the celestial abode. The torches of eternal flame that decorated the walls flickered unevenly, their light struggling against the encroaching shadows of uncertainty.
Erethur, the ancient and formidable deity, turned slowly toward this mysterious disturbance. His countenance, usually a mask sculpted from stoic judgment, softened, revealing something altogether rare and troubling: uncertainty, like a cloud hovering ominously in the vast sky of his mind.
"The Spiral has turned," he murmured softly, the weight of realization settling heavily on him. "And what was once locked away has now remembered the path it had long been denied."
Iserion, his steadfast companion, stepped silently beside him. He clutched the Loom of Threads—now a mere shadow of its former splendor, almost entirely blackened, with only a few fragile strands still glowing, quivering like the final gasps of dying nerves. "Then we are no longer the writers of fate," the God of Fate whispered, the reverberations of his words carrying the weight of impending doom. "We are merely reading its last lines."
Elsewhere, beneath the sun-bleached sands and the relentless cruelty of time, amidst the forgotten ruins of Somnareth—a temple long buried and lost to the world—something extraordinary began to stir.
A girl, no older than thirteen, emerged from the rubble, her hands bloodied and raw from clawing at the ancient stone as she fought her way into the world above. She stepped into a moonlit realm that shimmered with an ethereal light, even though she could feel the heavy cloak of darkness surrounding her. Trembling and weeping, yet smiling as though awakening from a nightmare that she could scarcely name, she stood poised between worlds. Upon her skin, she bore ancient markings, glowing softly in the dim light. Her eyes shone a radiant gold, reflecting the forgotten wisdom of ages.
With a voice trembling like the fluttering of new wings, she whispered a name she had never been taught, a name that resonated with the echoes of her soul.
"Kazuren."
And in that moment, the very earth beneath her feet trembled in response, as if acknowledging the significance of her utterance.
He walked alone, moving through the twilight like a specter emerging from the remnants of conflict. Kazuren strode purposefully, his cloak trailing behind him like tendrils of dusk interwoven with flickers of fire. Each step taken through the Vale of Broken Moons resonated with the memory of the land's anguish; withered trees contorted in agony, mountains groaned under the weight of their own history as if offering an apology, and rivers altered their course, defying their nature to avoid contact with this enigmatic figure.
Before him loomed the imposing presence of the Gate of Oracles, a relic older than thought itself, a sentinel overlooking the passage of time. Beyond this gate lay the Convergence, the sacred ground where gods were birthed, where the fabric of Time had first whispered its truths.
It had remained closed for a million years, untouched and silent.
Yet, for him, it opened inward—not to offer a welcome, but to surrender itself at his feet.
The ancient stone of the gate crumbled as if it bore the shame of long-stoic remembrance. The spirit of the gatekeeper—a once proud avatar of divine law—bowed its head in silence, dissolving into a fine ash as it vanished from existence. It had been waiting. All things had been waiting in still anticipation of this moment.
Kazuren stepped through the threshold.
Inside the Convergence, reality twisted and twisted again; there was no sky, no ground, only an expanse woven from the threads of memory and a sound conjured from the echoes of prophecy. This was the dwelling place from which the gods once drew inspiration to dream grand dreams.
Seated upon a throne of nothingness was a being cloaked in a robe so dark that it flickered like the vanishing light of dying stars.
"You have returned," it said, its voice an ethereal resonance that defied standard notions of gender. "And still, you burn brightly."
Kazuren remained silent in response, a whirlwind of memories and emotions swirling within him.
"You know why I sit here," the figure continued, its presence commanding and devoid of form, "You remember who I once was."
"I remember everything," Kazuren replied, his voice steady yet filled with the gravity of past experiences and lost potential.
The figure rose slowly, revealing an otherworldly nature, devoid of a face but filled with a void that wept light—a stark reminder of what once was and what could be. "Then you understand that this place cannot simply be seized. It must be earned…and paid for in the currency of sacrifice."
Kazuren inhaled deeply, not from exhaustion, but as if he were attempting to draw in the very essence of the memories that had shaped him into the being he had become.
"Then remember this," he said, his voice resonating with a weighty significance that hung in the air like an impending storm.
"I earned my annihilation. I do not intend to earn it again."
With these solemn declarations, he raised his hand high, a silent beacon signaling the dawn of a momentous event.
What transpired next was far from the conventional chaos of a battle. It transcended the ordinary skirmishes of life and death; it was a reckoning—an awakening of monumental proportions.
In an explosive wave of cosmic energies, the very fabric of the universe seemed to quiver, time bending and twisting as it rewound in a desperate, final plea for resolution. The air was filled with the echoes of countless centuries, a cacophony of lost moments and forgotten names bursting forth into existence as if refusing to be silenced any longer. Entire civilizations, long since erased from the annals of history, flickered back into being, if only for a fleeting heartbeat—an ephemeral protest against the relentless march of oblivion.
And there stood Kazuren, resolute and unwavering, meeting the onslaught of energies head-on, facing the cataclysmic surge with unwavering resolve.
He did not draw forth a weapon of steel or sorcery. Instead, he raised something infinitely more powerful: he raised truth. He raised memory. He summoned forth everything they had tried so meticulously to erase from the tapestry of existence, each fragment of history laden with untold tales and emotions.
Then came the moment of collision. When Kazuren's formidable will—a force of indomitable spirit—met the raw power of creation itself, the confrontation did not culminate in either resounding victory or disheartening defeat. It transitioned into a new plane of reality.
It culminated in sound—a single, profound note that reverberated through the cosmos, a note that was both terrible in its intensity and achingly beautiful in its purity.
It was the sound that fractured the very nature of eternity.
Far away, in a place beyond the reach of time and space, Lureth the Witness, the eternal observer, opened his eyes wide, his gaze fixed on the monumental event unfolding before him. For the first time in the annals of recorded reality, his lips parted, and he whispered, his voice trembling with reverence.
"He is not unmaking the world," he remarked softly, acknowledging the gravity of what he was witnessing.
"He is returning it," he continued, the words heavy with profound realization.
Across the vast realms—both divine and mortal, high and low—millions stirred from the depths of their slumber in unison, awakening to a collective consciousness that resonated through the fabric of existence. Their mouths moved as if guided by a mystical force, whispering the same word, an invocation that echoed across the expanses and bound them together in a powerful chorus:
"Kazuren."
And in that moment, the sky, which had remained stagnant and unchanging for ages untold, began to shift and shimmer with vibrant colors, as if responding to the call of countless souls who now recognized the dawn of a new epoch.
To be continued...