Qaritas stirred before the others could. His breath was uneven, laced with residual pain and something deeper: choice. Not defiance for its own sake. Not anger, though it burned beneath his skin.
Resolve.
He opened his eyes—black-violet flame swirling inside their iris-rimmed geometry.
Then he spoke.
Low. Even.
Final.
"No."
Ayla blinked. "What?"
He turned toward her—not cruel, but distant. Not to hurt her. To separate himself from the weight of what came next.
"You said my name. You always do, when you're afraid I'll disappear. But I'm not yours to call anymore."
He stood fully.
Flames still licked down his arms, light bleeding from runes that hadn't settled, each mark throbbing with molten violet heat. The air around him warped—smelled of iron, ozone, and something older, like burnt ink on ancient parchment. When he stood, the Graveyard adjusted—not just space, but pressure, as if the void itself inhaled.
"None of you get to decide what I become. Not anymore."
Silence.
A breath.
"I choose Mrajeareim."
____________________________________
Orhaiah stiffened. "It's a trap."
"Maybe. But it's mine. And the path of Becoming will kill me if I'm not ready. Ecayrous knows that. You all do."
He stepped forward—voice rising.
"For once, I'm not following prophecy. Or protection. I'm not bound by the dreams you had for me. I was cursed because I was weak. Because I was your caution."
Komus flinched. But said nothing.
"Now I'll be your fire. And if it burns everything down—so be it."
He didn't want to dream. He wanted silence. A room without judgment. A thought that didn't burn. But the moment he closed his eyes, the scream was waiting. Not his voice. His name.
It began in silence.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence of things dying too fast to scream.
Qaritas floated—not in space, not in thought, but in memory shaped like a nightmare. He knew it wasn't real. And somehow, it still bled.
The air reeked of iron, old smoke, and candlewax snuffed by breathless prayers. He saw thrones cracked like vertebrae, bones carved into halos slick with something glistening—almost wet. Rivers of blood looped like Möbius strips, flowing backward, forward, and nowhere at all.
Then—the tub.
Black liquid shimmered like star-oil and grief, too thick to be water, too alive to be metaphor. Qaritas had no body in the dream. Only eyes. And those eyes watched, wide, unwilling, as Ecayrous emerged.
Naked. Unburned. Smiling.
His body dripped with the liquid like it loved him. His form was perfect and unfinished, the kind of thing myth tried to describe but never dared worship.
His hair clung to his face like a crown of rot. His hands were wet with something that might once have been gods. And his voice—
His voice didn't speak.
It entered.
"Clever," he whispered.
Qaritas flinched.
But the flinch echoed.
It didn't belong to this moment.
It came from deeper. A wound beneath memory.
"You dream of blood because it's your inheritance," Ecayrous said, almost pleased. "You see death because it recognizes you."
A million eyes blinked open behind him—lining the walls, the ceilings, the stars themselves.
Each a memory.
Each a witness.
Each watching Qaritas.
He tried to move. Couldn't.
"The pain burns less if you stop pretending it's someone else's," Ecayrous said, stepping onto the bone-floor, each footfall echoing like a verdict.
"You don't belong to them, Qaritas. Not really. You were born between screams and cast as something lesser. But that's over now."
The dream began to shatter.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow," Ecayrous said.
His smile was too kind.
"Welcome home."
And then the voice was in his soul, burning like acid whispered through love.
Qaritas screamed—only to realize his mouth had never opened.
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It pulsed.
The voice hadn't left.
It was still breathing inside him.
Then—millions of eyes blinked at once.
And he woke.
Qaritas jolted, breath sharp.
The Graveyard again. His body heavy. His hand clenched.
But something inside him had not left that room. Not really.
He looked up at the gathered gods.
The fire in his voice wasn't rebellion anymore.
It was ownership—of pain, of prophecy, of the choice already made.
It was ownership.
He turned.
"Ayla. Cree. Hydeius. Komus. Niraí. You five already chose me."
His voice softened—but not much.
"This is your chance to un-choose me. No shame. No oathbreakers. Mrajeareim won't forgive hesitation."
None of them moved.
Ayla met his gaze and said quietly, "We didn't choose safety. We chose you."
Cree: "Would've been nice if you made the speech before we almost died in your scream, though."
Hydeius smiled—hollow, but real.
"You already know the answer."
Niraí: "Someone has to make sure you don't rewrite the axis of existence accidentally."
Komus didn't speak.
He only stepped forward and tapped his wrist twice.
I see you.
I accept you.
Qaritas exhaled—once.
Then turned to the others.
The ones watching. Judging. Failing.
"And for the sixth…"
He raised his head toward the stars.
Eyes locked with hers.
"Daviyi."
The Ascendant of Knowledge stiffened—but didn't flinch.
"You know every universe. Every story. I need someone who understands not just what's been done—but what could be."
Jrin started to interrupt.
"That's not—"
"—your choice," Daviyi said flatly.
Daviyi stepped down from her perch of thought, knowledge humming behind her eyes like collapsing stars.
"Understanding without risk is just observation," she said. "And I've observed enough."
The others turned, some murmuring.
Qaritas smiled—not kindly.
"Of course you'd object, Jrin. You're afraid of anything you can't classify."
His voice cracked—not with weakness, but the force of a buried roar rising.
"You're all cowards. You gave up before the scream even started. You let the Rite chain you into gods and called it freedom. But I see what you are."
He turned, gesturing toward them in arcs of scorched air.
___________________________
"You forgot the universes we failed. The children we left."
Around him, the gods stood in judgment.
Not silent out of guilt.
Silent because gods don't apologize—only delay.
He saw their names. Their powers. Their failure.
And still he burned.
— The Twenty-Eight Ascendants —
—Ayla, Ascendant of something he wasn't sure yet .
—Komus, Ascendant of Space, the son of a tyrant who boxed time like penance.
—Niraí, Ascendant of Cosmic Gates, who held the key to anywhere, and still stood still.
—Xriana, Ascendant of Fate, who rewrote destiny but forgot mercy.
—Tysesh, Ascendant of the Veiled Mind, whose thoughts bent truth, but never revealed his own.
—Kelene, Ascendant of Matter, who forged armor from arrogance—and still called it justice.
—Oreian, Ascendant of Planets, who yawned while gravity did his bidding.
—Hydeius, Ascendant of Souls, who whispered to the dead louder than he spoke to the living.
—Cree, Ascendant of Rebirth, who once changed gender like fire changed shape, and now burned only inward.
—Jrin, Ascendant of Order, who thought silence was structure.
—Daviyi, Ascendant of Knowledge, who knew the names of every universe—and now chose to remember one.
—Senyn, Ascendant of Harmony, whose peace was always post-war.
—Yonzei, Ascendant of Instinct, who blinked like he knew too late.
—Zyoku, Ascendant of Gravity, whose every breath pulled others down.
__________________________________________
—Erivyane, Ascendant of Dark Energy, who thrived on mass unspoken.
—Ræzun, Ascendant of Infinity, who had never finished a sentence he didn't regret.
—Skersaus, Ascendant of Memory, who flinched every time a name was spoken.
—Tyalithe, Ascendant of Truth, who looked away at the wrong moment.
—Isaeus, Ascendant of Potential, who had stopped becoming.
—Nysaeon, Ascendant of Dimensions, who could split reality—but never took a side.
—Orhaiah, Ascendant of Law, who carried a cracked scale and called it divine.
—Irteia, Ascendant of Dreams, whose visions once saved entire systems—but hadn't spoken in eons.
—Elios, Ascendant of Sleep, who dreamed while the galaxies bled.
—Lsori, Ascendant of Sound, whose voice had once shattered a black hole—now silent.
—Ona'Sha, Ascendant of Resonance, who harmonized with stars, but ignored screams.
—Rlaucus, Ascendant of the Abyss, who stared into it too long and forgot how to rise.
—Najen, Ascendant of Death, who buried gods without ever mourning them.Twenty-eight.
Each with power vast enough to shape universes.
And still they watched a cursed god-child do what none of them dared.
He looked down—dust and ash collecting between the ridges of his fingertips...Then looked up."You forgot them."
His breath caught—then steadied, volcanic."I didn't."
______________________________
His voice broke slightly.
"And maybe that's why Ecayrous chose me. Because even he knew... someone had to remember."
Silence.
He waited.
Not for applause.
For one of them—any of them—to speak.
None did.
So he did.
"You think pain makes you worthy?" Xriana asked coldly, finally breaking the silence.
"No." Qaritas's answer came sharp, without pause. "I think refusing to run makes me worthy."
"You don't understand what it means to lead. You were forged. Not raised," Tysesh said, voice clipped like a cracked whisper.
"And still, I choose," Qaritas replied, stepping forward.
"The Chainmaker will kill you," Kelene scoffed, arms crossed in contempt.
"Good." Qaritas's grin cut like embers. "Maybe that's what it takes to make you remember what dying for something means."
"This is going to be exhausting," Oreian muttered, lazily rotating one hand through orbit.
Komus looked at him.
"Then don't come." His voice was low—and final.
"You sound like him," Jrin said quietly. "The way he did, right before the first war."
Qaritas turned on him fully. His voice was heat wrapped in ice.
"No. I sound like a god who remembers the faces of the dead."
"You stood by while Hrolyn gave our legacy to ruin."
"You let peace become prison."
"And now I'm supposed to die quietly so your plans don't get ruined?"
He stepped closer.
"You want order. I want justice. And I'm not asking anymore."
Silence.
"What if we're wrong?" Erivyane asked, her voice barely audible.
"What if he's right?" Ræzun said softly, eyes unfocused.
"We did forget…" Skersaus whispered, head bowed.
Tyalithe didn't speak. But her eyes shimmered—truth recognized, if not yet accepted.
Qaritas turned back to his six.
Far above, the broken constellations flickered—uncertain, almost shy. Stars shifted their alignment by inches, as if responding not to command, but instinct. Even the Graveyard, in all its ruin, seemed to bow—its bones creaking like an old cathedral remembering worship.
"We leave at dawn," Qaritas said.
"There's no dawn in the Graveyard," Daviyi noted flatly, almost teasing.
Qaritas smirked. "Then we bring one."
The words didn't fall like defiance. They landed like a vow.
No one laughed. No one argued.
Even disbelief seemed to hold its breath.
He turned toward the cursed circle—still humming with fractured prophecy. The fire on his skin didn't burn it away.
It lit the path.
One step forward.
And the Graveyard, for the first time in eons, exhaled.
It didn't weep.
It made room—for the god who had chosen fire.
The gods did not stop him.The fire did not either.And when the Graveyard breathed again, it did not beg him to stay.
Rygartha was waiting.