I felt him leave before the shadows settled.
It was not sight that warned me, nor sound. It was the subtle release of pressure, like a storm deciding not to break.
Oma's presence always bent the world slightly out of alignment—stone felt thinner, air heavier, silence more alert. When he left, reality exhaled.
Oma never announced his departures. He did not believe in farewells. One moment his presence pressed against the world like a drawn blade, the next he was gone—air remembering where he had stood.
The chamber beneath Babel retained his echo longer than it should have. Shadows clung to corners as if uncertain whether they were still allowed to move.
Even the ancient runes etched into the floor—marks older than Babel itself—seemed dimmer, as though reluctant to witness what would follow.
He had followed me long enough.
Long enough to learn where even the True Slayers hid.
That alone would have condemned any other being. The knowledge of this place was not written. It was inherited.
Passed mouth to ear across centuries, reshaped each time so no map could survive it. Yet Oma had learned it the way predators learned terrain—by patience, by hunger, by letting danger teach him where it lived.
When he peeled away from my shadow and turned his hunger toward some mortal called Bey instead, I allowed myself a single breath of relief.
The breath tasted of cold stone and ancient dust. Of iron beneath the earth. Of blood long dried into foundations.
Not because he had left—
—but because I was tired of pretending I didn't let him follow me in the first place.
There were things even kings did not admit aloud.
I stepped forward alone, into the midst of the Trueslayers.
The space changed as I crossed its threshold. Sound dulled. The faint drip of water from unseen heights slowed, each drop echoing like a measured heartbeat.
The ground beneath my boots was smooth from centuries of footsteps, worn not by crowds but by inevitability.
They were already waiting.
Eight hundred and ninety-nine presences arranged not in circles or ranks, but in quiet acknowledgment of one another.
No banners. No thrones. No pageantry. A family of Incarnates. Each wearing a mask hiding faces they normally replaced every century.
The masks were not uniform. Some were bone, some metal, some living flesh held in perpetual stillness. Eye slits glowed faintly—embers, frost, void, starlight. Each mask was a lie agreed upon, a reminder that names and faces were temporary things.
The air itself felt sharpened by their attention, like steel left too long in frost.
It scraped against the lungs when I breathed. Even my heartbeat sounded intrusive here.
They did not bow.
They never did.
I removed my cloak anyway. Old courtesy. Old defiance.
The fabric whispered as it slid from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like a discarded skin.
"So," one of them said, voice carrying without effort. "He found us."
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, layered with others that chose not to speak.
Another followed, amused. "Not difficult, when you leave such large footprints, Zefar."
A faint ripple of shared knowing passed through them. They enjoyed reminding me that even gods could be tracked.
"I did not bring him," I replied calmly. "He followed."
A ripple passed through them—not laughter, not anger. Interest.
It tasted like curiosity sharpened into concern.
"Of course he did," a third voice said. "That boy follows you like a hound."
Boy.
They always took the chance to call Oma young because, all of them were older than a century.
"He passed the my test," I said.
The words echoed longer than they should have, settling into the stone.
One Trueslayer replied, "He also killed Trance."
A pause.
The kind that pressed inward.
The name alone carried weight. Trance had been ancient. Respected. Dangerous in the way madness sometimes was.
"We hanged others for less," another corrected.
"Yes," the first agreed. "his life depends on our mercy."
That earned a murmur of approval.
The sound was low, vibrating through bone rather than air. Approval from beings who measured time in civilizations was never kind.
I stood still, hands folded behind my back, as they spoke about Oma as if he were not already rewriting the world they cherished.
"Left Babel," one said. "Refused restraint," another added. "Entered our meeting without permission," a third noted. "Pride will be his downfall," someone else said softly.
Each statement landed like a mark carved into stone.
They were grading him.
"He uses his powers care or concern for others," one of them said. "That is always dangerous."
The phrasing was deliberate. Compassion was the sin they feared most.
"Dangerous to whom?" I asked.
Several of them smiled at that.
Masks curved. Light shifted.
"To everyone," came the answer.
Another voice, older than the rest, carried weight like stone dragged across bone. "He must be stopped."
The air thickened. Even the distant drip ceased.
"Of course," I agreed. "But who will face him."
Silence followed.
True silence. The kind that swallowed sound rather than lacking it.
Then—
"He stalked you," one said. "Watched you long enough to find this place."
I replied. "Yes."
They continued. "And you allowed it."
I was tired of repeating myself at this point. "Yes."
That stirred them.
Movement rippled through the assembly. A shift of feet. A tilt of masked heads.
"You giving this boy too much freedom," someone accused.
"I don't allow anything," I corrected. "There is a difference between my Slayers and a fully grown Trueslayer, who has mastered his powers."
One of them stepped closer—not threatening, just close enough to remind me that I stood in the midst of executioners who had outlived kingdoms.
I could smell old blood beneath his mask. Hear the faint grind of bone when he breathed.
"You built Babel on control," he said. "On laws. On obedience. And now you raise something you cannot cage."
I met his gaze without blinking.
"I did not raise him," I said. "I only guide him."
That pleased them more than I expected.
"He is becoming legend faster than anticipated," another said. "Kings on his continent already whisper his name like a curse."
"And fear him more than you," someone added.
That one was bait.
I took it.
"Good," I said. "Then he is progressing."
A low sound moved through the assembly—approval edged with unease.
"You will lose him," the elder voice warned. "One day soon. He will no longer orbit your will. He will no longer answer to you."
I smiled then.
Not wide.
Not kind.
"I never planned on controlling him."
That stopped them.
Truly stopped them.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Control was their language. Their comfort. Their addiction.
"You speak as if this was intentional," one said slowly.
"It was inevitable," I replied. "Diamonds weren't made by men. Pressure created them."
They studied me differently now.
Not as a ruler.
As a mastermind.
I turned then, cloak settling over my shoulders once more.
"Be honest," I said lightly, already stepping away. "You're not worried about me."
I glanced back, eyes catching every one of them.
"You're afraid of him. You are scared of what he will become if I stop standing between you and him."
For a moment—
They said nothing.
The silence was no longer judgmental.
It was respectful.
Then, as one voice layered over another, ancient and amused and reverent all at once, they spoke:
"Truly, the Devil of Babel has found his Demon."
I paused at the threshold.
The stone beneath my boots felt warmer there, closer to the living world.
"No greater heir has ever been as worthy," they continued, "—the duo born and raised in hell."
I did not turn back.
I did not need to.
I walked away knowing one truth above all others:
They did not fear my empire anymore.
They feared my legacy.
And somewhere beyond shadow and stone, Oma was already proving them right.