A storm seethed over the Imperial Capital.
Thunder rolled like the growl of ancient beasts, and dark clouds churned above, blotting out stars and moon alike. The heavens trembled, not in fear—but in mourning. Lightning carved jagged veins of gold across the sky, briefly illuminating the obsidian towers of the Imperial Palace, which loomed like blades pointed at the gods themselves.
In the Grand Plaza, once a place for imperial edicts and wartime declarations, an ocean of people had gathered—nobles adorned in jewels, soldiers in rigid formation, commoners standing shoulder to shoulder in trembling silence.
All summoned by one voice.
At the center of the plaza, upon a raised obsidian dais, stood Emperor Castiel.
His golden robes snapped in the wind like a divine standard. Around him, the air shimmered with unseen power, and his amber eyes glowed with celestial fire, unnatural and absolute. The storm did not touch him. The winds bent around him. Even nature hesitated.
And before him—seven condemned men knelt in chains, heads bowed, their former glories reduced to trembling flesh.
They were traitors. Once high-ranking commanders in the Eastern Army. Now, remnants of Seraphina's shattered rebellion. They had been summoned not for execution, but for revelation.
The crowd watched in frozen awe as the Emperor raised a single black-gloved hand.
There was no need for an executioner. No need for steel or sword.
He was judgment.
And then he spoke.
"By decree of the Empire," Castiel's voice rang out—not with mortal volume, but with divine force. It echoed beyond ears, vibrating in bone and soul. "Let it be known: those who defy the divine mandate shall be erased from the tapestry of existence."
He lowered his hand.
And the world broke.
Golden chains burst from the stone beneath the traitors, spiraling upward in blinding arcs. Holy symbols carved themselves into the air—ancient, alien, searing into the minds of all who looked upon them. The traitors screamed—not in pain alone, but in terror as celestial fire licked through their bodies.
They were not burned.
They were unmade.
Flesh disintegrated into light. Blood evaporated before it could fall. Their souls—visible for a moment as flickering sparks—were snuffed out like candles in a storm.
Silence followed. Terrifying. Absolute.
And then—chaos.
Some dropped to their knees, weeping in awe. Others cried out prayers, voices trembling with fanatic devotion. A few tried to flee but were stopped by divine force—held in place, compelled to witness the Emperor's wrath.
This was not rule by might.
This was the tyranny of the divine.
High above, on a shadowed balcony overlooking the square, Kael Arden stood still as stone.
His eyes—dark, calculating—reflected the golden light of destruction. The wind tousled his cloak, but he did not move. His mind absorbed every detail—the symbols, the light, the unmistakable energy.
The Archons had truly answered.
Castiel was no longer playing politics.
He was declaring godhood.
Beside him, Ilyssia stared in disbelief. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"This... changes everything."
Kael said nothing. His jaw tightened. A thousand thoughts unfurled behind his still gaze—ancient contracts, divine pacts, celestial costs. Power like that did not come freely.
What had Castiel traded?
What leash now rested unseen around the Emperor's neck?
What price would be extracted?
And more importantly—
How could he be broken?
A slow, cold smile crept across Kael's lips. It held no mirth. Only promise.
Because this wasn't fear he felt. It was recognition.
Castiel had revealed his hand.
And Kael?
Kael would remind the world that even gods could bleed.
To Be Continued...