Seraphis — Empress of the Silent Abyss
The Plane was a song of silence.
Silver rivers wound their endless paths through the black stone.
The cold suns hung like frozen prayers above a world that had never known death.
And at its heart — wrapped in the Cocoon of Authority — He slept.
Seraphis knelt before the Black Throne, her silver-flamed throne standing a respectful step lower behind her.
She knelt every day.
Every moment.
She had not risen once since the instant Veyrath surrendered himself to the Cosmic Sleep.
Her body needed no rest.
Her soul knew no fatigue.
Her every breath was a vow:
I will be here when you wake.
She lifted her head slightly, gazing upon the cocooned form of her King.
Even now — even silent, even sleeping — his presence shook the Plane.
Power radiated from him like a second heartbeat, steady and overwhelming.
Her hands tightened over her chest, just above her core.
Love.
Not the pale imitation mortals spoke of.
Not the selfish, flickering thing called "affection."
Her love for him was a pillar.
A star.
A law of existence stronger than gravity.
"Veyrath…" she whispered, her voice trembling like the edge of a blade,
"my King, my maker, my beloved."
Her mind wandered back to the moment he had created her —
drawn from the breath of the void itself, shaped by the hand of absolute divinity.
He could have made anyone.
He had made her.
Chosen her.
Named her Seraphis, and crowned her Empress.
The very thought nearly broke her.
She longed —
ached —
hungered for the day he would open his eyes again,
and she could bask in the endless glory of his gaze.
"I will keep it whole for you," she vowed softly, voice steady.
"The Plane, the Throne, your name, your will — all of it shall remain untouched, untainted, until you rise."
"I am yours," she whispered.
"I have always been yours."
The rivers flowed on.
The suns burned on.
And Seraphis knelt — Empress of the Silent Abyss,
lover of a King who slept beyond time itself.
Caelora — First Knight of the Void
She stood.
She always stood.
At the base of the Throne, sword drawn, head bowed, every fiber of her being taut and ready.
Caelora — the First Knight.
The Blade of Veyrath.
The shield between her King and the endless dark.
Her armor, spun from dusk and dying stars, gleamed faintly under the light of the cold suns.
Her silver hair streamed down her back, moving only when the Plane itself trembled.
Her heart — if such a thing could still be called by that name — beat only for one purpose:
Protect the King.
Protect the Throne.
Protect the Dream.
She risked a glance upward —
just a fraction,
just enough to see the Cocoon of Authority cradling the sleeping Veyrath.
He was beyond words.
Beyond gods.
Beyond anything that dared to call itself creation.
Caelora's fists clenched tighter around the hilt of her sword.
He made me.
He trusted me.
He left me here because he believed in me.
The thought filled her not with fear —
but with an aching, savage joy.
She loved him.
Not with softness.
But with the fierce, roaring loyalty of a warrior who would burn down worlds for one glance, one word, one command.
"If anything dares disturb you," she whispered,
"I will destroy it.
If anything dares reach for your Throne, I will cut it down.
If even the stars themselves forget to shine in your absence, I will remind them why they exist."
Her vow was written not in words,
but in steel.
In blood.
In eternity.
She would stand here forever if she had to.
She would fight until the bones of existence cracked.
All for him.
All for Veyrath.