When the first form of life was born in the Forge of Creation, it was a simple creature, no more than primordial slime. Yet that base creature became the mold from which all life was later forged and perfected. All lifeforms originated from slime, from the smallest blade of grass to the mightiest dragons. And yes, you too were once born from slime.

  Justine Celeste Fox, Chronicler of the Infinite Fates

  said before a group of new soulsworn arrivals

  from the Throne of Origins in Avalon

  In the magical world of Eden, where dragons rule from their treasure hordes and every damsel you meet could be a mighty mage or righteous warrior, few things can inspire true fear into the sentient races and species that wander its lands.

  Rhalzaimon, the surviving supreme entity after Kruonis and Giltine surrendered their power.

  Arcturous, the dragon emperor and the original deity of Eden.

  Cortana, the draconic archcelesital of fire.

  Purite, the elemental archcelestial of water.

  Sakura, the nymphic archcelestial of wind.

  Sage, the bestial archcelestial of earth.

  Serenity, the angelic archcelestial of light.

  Isabella, the demonic archcelestial of shadow.

  And Solomon Dragonstar, the forgotten prince of the dragonkin empire.

  Kruonai Dragonstar, Queen of Pacryle and Daughter of the Last Empress, strode down the labyrinthine halls of her palace with the certainty of a woman who had climbed, bled, and clawed her way back from the brink of oblivion. Yet, for all her regal bearing and the unyielding set of her jaw, Kruonai trembled within. The source of her unease was not the prospect of facing a rival lord or even the encroaching threat of another usurper, but rather a singular figure whose shadow had grown long enough to eclipse the sky—Solomon Dragonstar, the brother she remembered only in fragments, but whose legend now haunted the world’s waking hours despite his birthname being long forgotten.

  She could not help but shiver when his name crossed her mind. Not from cold, but from a complex cocktail of terror, awe, and something that bordered on irrational fear. Solomon, once her brother, now a force beyond comprehension. Once the avatar of Kruonis, and the last hope of a dying bloodline. Now ascended beyond mortal limits. What could she possibly offer him? What could she even say? Her hands clenched at her sides, and the golden light that poured from the stained-glass windows turned her arms into bands of molten metal.

  Her retinue followed at a respectful distance, the sounds of their armored boots echoing in the corridor. The first was Kastytis, a former captain of the royal guard, whose every step radiated the discipline and efficiency of a man who had suffered failure once and would never allow it again. He walked with his head turned slightly, constantly scanning for threats, his hand never more than a breath from the hilt at his side. He had once served Solomon directly. That time was past, and although the shame of his dismissal lingered, he bore it in silence, finding renewed purpose in his loyalty to Kruonai.

  At his side strode Jurate, a grim and taciturn soul, draped in the blue-black leathers of the elite sentinels. The scars covering his arms and neck were not badges of honor; they were ledger marks, every one a lesson in failure and survival. He had been part of the squad that rescued Kruonai from a demon-backed assassination attempt, and from that day had devoted himself to her safety. If his loyalty to Solomon had once bordered on the fanatical, now it had cooled to guarded respect—a mutual understanding that greatness bred casualties, and some debts could never be repaid.

  The final member of the group, and its strangest, was Zaria Wolfsbane. In public, she played the role of Kruonai's handmaiden, but she was so much more: a noblewoman of the House Wolfsbane, an elite member of the soulsworn, and a legend in her own right. Zaria was tall, with skin the color of ancient birch and hair as white as the first frost. Her eyes, almost silver in their pallor, reflected every flicker of light as she shadowed her queen. She alone among the group had the power—and more importantly, the right—to bridge the gap between the mortal world and that which lay beyond. Her devotion to Solomon was absolute, but it was not that of a subject to her king. It was more primal, as if she recognized in him the soulmate she had never known she needed.

  Kruonai paused at a fork in the corridor, uncertain. For a moment, none of her companions spoke, each lost in memory and speculation. The palace was quiet, but beyond the windows, the city was in the midst of a hushed panic. Word had reached even the lowest gutters that something apocalyptic loomed at the horizon. The servants of Rhalzaimon moved in secrecy, but the common folk could feel the tension in the air, a tension that had driven Kruonai to the desperate gambit she now pursued.

  She forced herself to breathe, to focus. The time had come. She glanced back at Zaria and beckoned her forward with a single nod. “Let’s not draw this out,” Kruonai said, and her voice was braver than she felt.

  Zaria inclined her head, then turned to Kastytis and Jurate. “We step beyond the world’s edge, but we do not go as beggars,” she said. “Remember your oaths, and hold your ground.”

  She lifted her hand, and between her fingers a light formed—a subtle, wavering blue, no brighter than a candle’s flame but infinitely more potent. With a gesture, Zaria carved a line in the air, her fingertips slicing reality as easily as silk. The line shimmered, grew, and spun itself into a perfect circle, a portal that opened onto a realm of infinite darkness and burning stars. To step through was to accept oblivion, or perhaps rebirth.

  Kruonai hesitated only a fraction of a second, then swept forward, daring her fear to follow. The others came in silent procession, the portal closing behind them with a sound like a sword being drawn from a sheath.

  They emerged into the no-space known as Dausos, the resting ground of soulsworn and the staging area for all who would approach the throne of the Watcher. Columns of shadow and light alternated with harrowing symmetry, and in the far distance, a stairway ascended into blackness, its top lost in the swirl of cosmic dust and nebulae.

  “Solomon is waiting,” Zaria said, and though her tone was measured, Kruonai detected the tremor beneath it.

  Kastytis and Jurate, those pillars of unwavering resolve, now walked as men condemned: stiff in their stride, hands twitching at imaginary weapons, foreheads beaded with the first cold sweat of real fear. Even the air seemed to shudder around them, knowing that each breath brought them closer to a throne room where words could weigh down the soul or unmake it entirely. Only Zaria advanced without hesitation, her every motion suffused with a confidence so absolute it seemed almost sacrilege. Where most might cling to the walls, she strode the center, head high, eyes bright as if this corridor of dread were the sunlit gardens of the royal castle in Pacryle. Soulsworn guards stood defensively throughout the room, guarding the entrance of Avalon to ensure none may pass without the consent of a guardian.

  “Hello, we request an audience with your, erm, goddess?” Kruonai said, her voice a cool blade slicing through the hush. The soulsworn guards paid her statement no heed; their attention fastened solely upon Zaria—her handmaiden, but so much more, as everyone present knew. While Zaria chose to serve as her handmaiden, it did not change the fact that Zaria was a soulsworn valkyrie to Solomon.

  “Lady Zaria, we are delighted by the return of our famous Valkyrie of Greed. Your companions sent word ahead, and your request for an audience with the Dark Lady has been approved.” The leading guard stepped into their path, her presence so commanding that even the ever-brazen Zaria slowed and drew herself up. She was a woman of staggering age; her features bore the polished, statuesque severity of a forgotten dynasty. The lines of her face had been etched by centuries of vigilance, and her eyes—cold, blue-black, and glinting with an intelligence honed over endless campaigns—took in every detail of the newcomers with a predator’s calculation. Her jaw was set as if she might bite through steel rather than yield an inch of respect unearned. Ancient braids streaked with starlight fell across dented plate armor that had been hammered and inlaid with the sigils of a hundred oaths—some faded, others scorched into the metal with holy fire or the ichor of voidspawn.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Her hands, gloved but sure, hovered near the pommel of a ceremonial blade that radiated the low, constant thrum of an angelic resonance field, the kind meant to disrupt the structure of heretics at the molecular level. The armor itself was not gaudy; it had developed a layer of patina, but every plate and joint bespoke terrible, immutable purpose. Even her helmet, tucked beneath one arm, was carved with runes of warding that crawled and shimmered faintly as if impatiently awaiting her command.

  The sharp gazes of the guards swept over Kruonai, assessed Kastytis and Jurate for threats, but always returned to Zaria with a complex weight behind it—a density of meaning that shuttled between suspicion and reverence with every heartbeat. In this exchange, hierarchy and history both warred and entwined. To the old guard, Zaria was both the prodigal and the betrayer; she had walked away from the promise of ascension, choosing instead the fraught path of loyalty to her mortal charge. That decision, in this hallowed place, was a paradox: both an affront and a source of pride.

  Not relevant here, at least not really so I am making use of the spoiler tag to add on some content! All those who are "soulsworn" serve Solomon (its how they become soul sworn, lol).

  Her gesture was small but telling: she inclined her head in acknowledgment, but not enough to constitute a bow. It was more an appraisal than a greeting, the motion of one who recognized a worthy adversary or, perhaps, a necessary evil. Her lips thinned, and she drew a careful breath, as if the history of the world depended on her next words.

  Behind her, the other guards maintained a perfect formation—six in all, each standing precisely equidistant, each with armor and weapons customized not for battle, but for ritual. Their weapons, too, bore strange and ancient runes, the meaning of which had been lost to most living scholars but lingered in the secret annals of Avalon’s keepers. They did not flinch or whisper, but the tension in the air was tangible, setting the hairs of even the coldest mortal necks on end.

  For a moment, the corridor was utterly silent, the only sound the distant, unplaceable hum of the sanctum itself—a sound that was part machine, part song, and part the quiet exhalation of the universe at rest.

  Then the lead guard finally spoke, her voice a dry, authoritative contralto that brokered no contradiction: “Follow me to the antechamber. The portal room is no place for you and your guests to linger.”

  The guards moved as a single organism, quickly closing in with a choreography perfected over eons. The corridor twisted and narrowed, forcing the party into a tight spiral that mirrored the tension in their hearts. There were no corridors in the mortal world quite like these—every curve and angle designed to maximize the feeling of insignificance, to shrink the self before the immensity of the divine. Lanterns burned along the walls, their flames guttering in a wind that did not exist; the only sound was the measured tread of armored boots and the faint, almost subliminal hiss of expectation.

  Kruonai’s gaze traveled from the chiseled stone beneath her feet to the shadows that pooled like blood at each intersection. She searched for weaknesses, for the tactical flaw that might yield escape if things went awry. But the only weakness here was in the hearts of those who walked the path—a gnawing truth that pressed harder with each step.

  “Zaria, why do you choose to serve me?” Kruonai asked, her voice lower now, not from fear of the guards escorting them but from an instinctive respect for the place. “You would be the equivalent of a queen here.”

  Zaria answered with a smile that was at once predatory and kind, the glint of her ring casting errant moons along the polished obsidian. “Suspicious of my motives, my lady? I chose you, rather than a throne, because I am my mother’s daughter. I would rather make history than rot as a chapter in someone else’s book. Here, what would I be? Another queen among a dozen, each more bitter than the last. In your shadow, I carry meaning no tiara could bestow.”

  “Based on what I have seen, you would lead a mighty army and enjoy the attendance of a dozen servants to see to your every wish,” Kruonai said. “You could live here as you pleased. Many would gather to your banner, whether in Avalon or in Eden.”

  “Because it would be an empty life,” Zaria replied, and for a moment her mask slipped, exposing the wounded core beneath. “This city is full of immortals who have never lived a single honest day. They speak in riddles, love in rumors, and fight with poison. No matter how many bow, it is only the illusion of loyalty. I would rather fight for something real, even if it means kneeling as a handmaiden. My parents, and yours, believed in a world where power was used to uplift, not oppress. I intend to make it so.”

  “They were true allies for the wishes of Empress Ausrine,” Kruonai said, her own voice softer now. “I wish I had been able to know her.”

  “She lives on in you, in ways you cannot imagine,” Zaria replied, her eyes impossibly bright with ancient grief. “Every one of your victories is hers. Every time you defy fate, it is her spirit that guides you. She would have been proud.”

  Kruonai allowed the praise, though it pierced her with a guilt she could never voice. In this place—where every secret was a potential weapon, every confession a vulnerability—she could only nod, and hope the tears did not reach her eyes.

  They neared the antechamber, a space so utterly silent it seemed the world itself paused to watch. Zaria’s steps slowed, the gravity of what approached drawing them all into a single, shared breath. “May I present you and your ask to my love?” Zaria asked, and though her tone was measured, the question itself was a gift.

  “Of course,” Kruonai said, her relief obvious despite herself. “If anyone can make her listen, it is you. And you know my challenges better than anyone.”

  A single, sharp turn, and the corridor gave way to a cavernous space where the throne room awaited. The guards stopped, their leader glancing at Zaria for permission to proceed. She moved to the fore and, with a swift, almost reverent gesture, pushed open the doors.

  Inside, the throne room stretched wider than any cathedral—a universe unto itself, designed to diminish the mortals who entered. Six chairs lined a dais below the throne, each marked by a sigil so ancient even the dragonkin could not name them. The soulsworn archcelestials sat in these seats, their expressions devoid of mercy or malice, purely analytical. The throne itself was a black monolith, carved of a material that seemed to both drink and emit light. At its foot rested Ouroboros, sealed in a crypt of void stone, its essence contained but ever watchful, a prisoner with infinite patience. Off to the right, a werefox chronicler wrote furiously, their brush darting from inkwell to parchment as they recorded the scene for the ages.

  A goddess of shadows reclined lazily upon her seat, utterly indifferent to the pageantry of mortals. Her eyes were not eyes, but swirling galaxies; her skin the color of night seen through a thin veil of tears. Kruonai bowed, as did Zaria, Kastytis, and Jurate. The archcelestial of shadow rose, the movement sending ripples of distortion through the chamber.

  “Goddess of Shadow, Mother of Monsters, Soulsworn Archcelestial of Envy, I bring a supplicant before you today who seeks to forge a new path for her people,” Zaria announced, her voice ringing with ceremonial force. “I present Kruonai Dragonstar, true ruler of Pacryle and its people, first of her name. She who was lost in darkness and returned to the light. She broke her own chains and raised the dragon banner anew. We seek the power to defy our foes in accordance with the Doctrine of the Dark Lady.”

  “You stand before the supreme,” intoned the archcelestial, her voice less a sound than a law carved into the bones of reality. “Kneel and give worship to the Lord of Dragons, Goddess of Time, the Reaper of all Life, Guardian of the Tapestry, and Keeper of Ouroboros. Kneel, or be made to kneel.”

  The air thickened with a threat that was at once physical and spiritual. There could be no hesitation, not here. Kruonai knelt, heart hammering, the memory of every fallen comrade pressing between her shoulder blades. The only sound was the tireless scratching of the chronicler’s quill, each word a binding spell upon their fates. It was in that moment that anger flared in Kruonai; she realized with cold certainty that every step, every sacrifice, every nightmare had brought her to this singular act of submission. And only this vile monster, of all beings, could grant what she needed.