The banquet flowed on, dazzling and grand.
Laughter, music, the clinking of goblets filled the hall with warmth.
But at the Vale family's table, a subtle tension remained, like a string pulled tight.
Aren sat quietly, watching over his family with a distant gaze.
It was then that a servant approached — dressed in the imperial livery, head bowed so low it nearly touched the floor.
"My lord... His Majesty requests your presence," the servant said, voice trembling.
The table fell into silence.
Selene glanced at him with quiet worry.
Lyra and Darian exchanged anxious looks.
Even little Mira and Elara sensed the shift, clutching their mothers' hands with wide, uncertain eyes.
Aren rose slowly, straightening the sleeves of his deep black coat.
He smiled faintly at them — a rare, soothing expression meant to ease their fears — before ruffling Mira's hair and nodding reassuringly toward Selene.
"I'll be back before dessert," he said lightly, voice low enough that only they heard.
The family watched him go, curiosity, surprise, and unease tangled in their chests.
The servant led Aren through winding private corridors, away from the glittering hall and into the solemn heart of the palace.
Massive stone walls lined with ancient tapestries seemed to absorb sound, leaving only the soft echoes of their steps behind.
At last, they reached a heavy door marked with nothing but an ancient, unbroken seal.
The servant bowed once more and fled.
Aren pushed the door open without hesitation.
Inside was a grand, dimly lit chamber — wide windows revealing the endless night sky beyond.
A round table waited at the center, already set with two old bottles of dark liquor and crystal glasses.
And sitting casually in one of the armchairs, a powerful figure waited.
No crown adorned his head, no grandiose robe draped his form — yet the very air bent faintly around him, as if reality itself bowed to his presence.
The Emperor.
The only man on this earth who stood equal to Aren Vale.
Two transcended beings — the two strongest humans alive.
They exchanged no stiff greetings.
Only a nod.
A meeting between ancient warriors.
Aren poured himself a glass, the rich liquid gleaming under the candlelight.
He took a sip, savoring the familiar burn, and chuckled.
"Well," Aren said lazily, dropping into the opposite chair, "if you're dragging an old man like me out of retirement, the gods themselves must have declared war."
The Emperor lifted his glass and smiled grimly.
"Close enough," he said.
A beat of silence passed.
Then the Emperor leaned forward, voice dropping into something that did not belong to the realm of ordinary men.
"The gods have decided," he said quietly, "that this world must end."
Aren froze, the glass pausing just before his lips.
The Emperor continued, each word weighted like iron:
"A lower angel descended two nights ago. It announced to the rulers of every race — human, demon, dragon — that the gods, in their infinite wisdom, have judged our world unworthy.
They intend to destroy it — cleanse it utterly — before creating something new."
He drained his glass in one long pull, as if trying to wash the bitterness from his mouth.
Aren set his own drink down with deliberate care.
"And how," he said lightly, "do they intend to do that? The gods can't touch our world directly. Universal law binds even them."
The Emperor's eyes darkened.
"They won't. But they can send their servants. Armies of angels — real ones. Each of them strong enough to lay waste to kingdoms. Maybe even continents."
Aren leaned back, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the arm of his chair.
"So the heavens are waging war through proxies," he mused. "Typical."
Another heavy silence.
"And what of the messengers?" Aren asked, tone sharpening.
The Emperor's lips curled into a thin, savage smile.
"The Demon Lord, the Dragon Emperor, and I..."
He set the glass down with a sharp click.
"We each killed the angel sent to us."
A breath of silence passed between them.
The candle flames flickered, shadows dancing across Aren's sharp features.
He closed his eyes briefly, then laughed — a low, dangerous sound.
"Only humans," Aren said, shaking his head. "Only mortals would hear a divine decree and respond by murdering the messenger."
The Emperor gave a short, humorless laugh in return.
"But it's bought us time," he said. "Time we intend to use. We'll stand against the heavens if we must. Just as we once stood against the nightmares of the old world."
Aren opened his eyes slowly.
Gone was the casual smile.
Gone was the sleepy, retired air.
What remained was something terrible and beautiful — a man who had once broken armies, shattered kings, and been hailed as legend.
His aura — not fully released, but stirring faintly — crackled in the room like a waking storm.
He reached for his glass again, swirling the liquid idly.
"And here I thought," Aren said softly, "I'd live the rest of my days teaching my granddaughters to fish and build secret gardens."
The Emperor met his gaze.
"You still can," he said, voice suddenly low, almost pleading.
"But we may need you first, Aren. All of you."
Another pause.
"And if we fail," the Emperor added, "there won't be a world left for them to grow up in."
Aren stared at him for a long moment.
Then he threw his head back and laughed again — wild and fearless.
"As if," he said.
"As if I'd let anyone — gods, angels, or fate itself — take that from them."
The night outside stretched wide and dark.
But in that chamber, two warriors sat — one crowned in gold, the other robed in forgotten glory — and the world's survival balanced quietly between them.