Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Fourteen: When Silence Speaks in Flame
The stars began to blink into existence, one by one, across the vast, velvet tapestry that adorned the night sky. They flickered softly, then abruptly vanished, not as though they had succumbed to death, but rather as if they had cast their gazes downward in a profound sense of shame.
For something formidable and ancient was approaching.
Something that predated even the existence of stars themselves.
Something they had once exiled through their solemn hymns and chants.
Now, as the heavy silence descended upon the sky, spreading like a wound across the vast expanse, a flicker of flame ignited, defying the darkness.
At the precarious edge of the Cradle of the Dawn—where radiant light had once first graced creation—stood two enigmatic figures: one was adorned in fiery splendor, their very essence radiating warmth and brilliance, while the other was cloaked in a shroud of ash and wings, a haunting silhouette against the dawn.
Kazuren. Seraphielle.
They reunited not as powerfully entwined lovers, nor as loyal comrades, but as remnants of a long-forgotten past—divine echoes that carried the weight of a truth buried deep beneath layers of lies spun by the very gods themselves over millennia.
The earth beneath their feet trembled violently, as if the fabric of reality itself quivered in anticipation. Above them, the clouds held their breath, caught in a moment of suspended disbelief. Even the vast, empty void seemed to pause, as though pondering the significance of what was to come.
When Kazuren finally gave voice to the heavy silence, his words resonated not simply through the air, but vibrated through the very core of existence itself.
"They will come for you again."
Seraphielle lifted her gaze to meet his, her magnificent wings trailing golden streams of light and shadow through the fractured soil that surrounded them.
"Let them come," she replied with unwavering resolve. "I no longer sing their songs."
In that moment, a profound stillness enveloped them.
Then, with a delicate yet powerful gesture, Seraphielle raised her hand high into the sky—and the heavens themselves cracked open.
From her fingertips surged the threads of memory, unraveling across the tapestry of time: visions poured forth into the world, overwhelming the senses. Mortals gasped as they awoke to forgotten truths that surged into their consciousness, igniting lost recollections. Children cried out names that had long faded from spoken lore. Elders stirred from their slumber, weeping as lost memories flooded back to torment them—things they had been forced to bury deep within their minds.
Within the magnificent and solemn halls of the Celestial Citadel, the thrones fashioned for the gods themselves trembled, howling in dismay and unrest.
The pantheon of gods had gathered within the Hall of Sealed Time, a realm where age held no dominion and dust dared not settle, where nothing was meant to change. However, the air was thick with a single, haunting question that echoed like a refrain through the chamber:
"What have we done?"
Erethur, a figure of despondent authority, remained rooted in silence as chaos unfurled around him, divine turmoil gripping the assembly.
Iserion, in a fit of desperation, clawed desperately at the unseen threads of the Loom of Threads, attempting in vain to mend what Seraphielle had so decisively undone.
"They remember her!" he bellowed, his voice a panicked crescendo. "The mortals REMEMBER HER!"
But the threads did not yield to restoration; they only bled radiant light—no longer pathways toward fate but mere reflections of consequence.
Erethur turned his gaze away from the frantic pantheon, his voice cold as ice and heavy with judgment.
"We struck her name from eternity," he proclaimed, his words like the final toll of a bell, resonating with finality. "But we could not erase her essence from the fabric of truth."
He looked down upon the mortal realm sprawling beneath him, where flames flickered—not with the intent to consume, but as symbols of awakening and realization.
"The fire is thinking," he murmured, recognizing the shift in the hearts of mortals.
Far below, amidst scorched battlefields and cities reduced to rubble, clusters of mortals gathered—not with the intent to wage war, but to listen and to reclaim their voices. They did not come to pray, hands clasped in earnest supplication, but to remember.
In the shattered streets of Lorianth, young and old, the broken and the brave stood united beneath the expansive sky, their voices rising in a chorus.
Not singing hymns meant to honor the deities that had long abandoned them. Not chanting praises to forgotten idols.
Instead, they gave life to the fragments of Seraphielle's sacred song—the powerful melody that had once woven threads of peace and connection into the very bones of creation.
The Forgotten Hymn was awakening, reborn into a world filled with possibility.
And along with it ignited a spark of rebellion—a defiance that flourished not through weapons of war, but through the unwavering power of truth.
Kazuren observed from the distant heights of a craggy cliff, his muscular arms crossed as fiery tendrils caressed his shoulders with a gentle warmth.
Beside him, Seraphielle stood in tranquil contemplation, her eyes closed, attuned to the wave of mortal voices that rose in unison.
"They don't know what they're singing," she said softly, her voice a whisper upon the wind, tinged with wonder.
Kazuren nodded in understanding.
"No, they do not know. However, they remember all too well the profound silence that enveloped the world when your voice was stolen from their hearts," he replied, his tone grave yet hopeful.
Seraphielle turned her gaze toward him.
"And now?" she inquired, sensing the weight of the moment.
"Now," he said, his golden eyes ablaze with intensity, "they sing because they have chosen to rise. They are done kneeling."
In the farthest, most forgotten corner of the known world—where no chart could fathom its scope, and even the gods themselves had lost memory of its name—something monumental began to uncoil.
A great door, steeped in antiquity and wisdom, creaked open. It was a threshold forged before the waxing of time.
From within, something ancient stirred.
Not a god. Not a beast.
But a concept—an echo of existence itself, a presence ensnared in chains woven from the very essence of language. Spoken only once in all of history, its name had been sealed away; to utter it was to invite chaos.
The door creaked wider, drawn by forces unseen.
And from the depths of infinity, a voice whispered—one without a physical form, yet rich with its own resonance—into the infinite folds of creation:
"If the flame thinks… and the wing remembers… then it is my turn to rise."
To be continued...