The sky looked stitched together with scars.
Auroras hung like torn ribbons, weaving through cracks of darkness that bled faint starlight. Whole constellations had been devoured, replaced by holes that pulsed faintly — like the world's wounds refusing to close. The gods stood at the center of that broken heaven, not as symbols of light, but as tired beings wrapped in armor forged from memory and law.
Sid walked among them, the ash of Drelith still clinging to his boots. Every step left a faint print that smoked, as though the ground itself remembered the ruin he came from. The weight of the fragments pressed on his chest — not metal or stone, but something heavier: choices he hadn't yet made.
He didn't look like the others. Where the gods' light blazed and wavered, Sid's shadow was steady, the edges too clean, as if even the light refused to touch him.
At the heart of the summit stood the Chain of Aeterion.
It hung between two broken pillars of sky, floating in the air like an accusation. The links were massive, carved from material that shimmered between crystal and liquid. Each link glowed from within — steady, rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat that did not belong to any creature. The sound was faint but relentless:
thrum—thrum—thrum.
Eryon, the First Flame, stepped forward, his eyes hollow suns. His voice rolled across the summit like slow thunder.
"This is the Chain that once bound the world's first lie. Forged from law itself — to bind, command, and hold. It will serve again."
Sid said nothing. He could feel it — the Chain wasn't just alive, it was aware. When his gaze brushed against it, light refracted oddly, twisting into shapes that followed him, like reflections in cracked glass.
The gods murmured among themselves, their tones all precision and detachment. They spoke of containment, of sealing Ravh'Zereth, of mathematical wards and sacred constants. Their words didn't sound like faith. They sounded like war strategy.
Sid's hand curled unconsciously. "You want to use it on him," he said quietly, "to bind Ravh'Zereth again."
Eryon's gaze met his.
"Not only him. The vessel must anchor the seal."
For a moment, Sid didn't breathe. The world seemed to slow around him — the gods, the chain, the cold blue light reflecting off everything. He finally asked, "You mean me."
A murmur spread through the gathered assembly — not denial, not pity, just confirmation without words. A verdict already written.
And then, from the edge of the summit, came a voice that didn't sound divine at all.
"No."
Nox stepped forward, human and bleeding, his jacket torn, his skin streaked with soot. His presence shouldn't have mattered among gods — but it did. Every immortal eye turned toward the boy who refused to bow. He stood beside Sid, one hand pressed against his ribs, the other raised as though daring the world to contradict him.
"You use laws like blades," Nox said, his tone sharp and calm. "Every time something doesn't fit your equation, you cage it. Bind it. Call it necessary. You'll chain Sid, not because he's dangerous — but because you're afraid."
The silence after was alive.
Eryon's light dimmed a little.
"Mortal, your courage is misplaced. This is not fear. It is protection."
"Protection," Nox repeated bitterly, "looks a lot like control."
Sid wanted to speak, but words tangled behind his teeth. He felt caught between them — between law and defiance, between gods who thought in geometry and a boy who thought in pain. The Chain's hum grew louder, as though feeding on their argument. Its light sharpened, refracting off Sid's skin until his shadow twisted and multiplied around him.
And then the Chain reacted.
The world went white.
A wind without air surged outward — threads of energy curling toward Sid. Symbols blazed in the air, luminous, alive. The Chain's links turned molten-bright and trembled violently.
Sid staggered, his hand instinctively raised. The light struck his palm — not burning, but recognizing. The rhythm of its pulse matched his heartbeat exactly.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
For a moment, the Chain of Aeterion was no longer a divine relic. It was a mirror.
Sid saw himself reflected in it — not his body, but everything inside: memories, guilt, the black seal beneath his ribs, the flicker of Ravh'Zereth's ember still alive inside him.
He gasped. "It's… reacting to me."
Eryon's tone hardened.
"As expected. The vessel is the key."
"You don't even ask if I'm willing," Sid said, voice shaking with something between anger and awe.
"Willingness is irrelevant," said one of the younger gods. "The Chain responds to what is, not what you wish."
Sid's jaw clenched. "Then maybe what is isn't enough anymore."
The Chain glowed brighter at that — a shimmer that sounded almost like laughter. Somewhere in that metallic hum, Sid thought he heard something ancient whisper: Choice is a chain, too.
He stepped back, shaking. Nox caught his arm before he fell.
"Don't listen to them," Nox muttered. "They see the world as something to fix, not to feel. You're not their key."
Sid looked at him — really looked. Nox's eyes weren't bright like the gods'. They were just tired, full of grit and worry, but alive. There was no holiness in him, and that was what made him real.
"I don't know what I am anymore," Sid said quietly.
"Then decide it yourself," Nox replied. "Before they decide for you."
The summit dissolved soon after, the gods dispersing like collapsing constellations. But the Chain remained — suspended, still beating, still watching. Sid stood there long after they'd gone, his hand pressed against his chest where the rhythm continued in echo.
Nox sat on a shattered pillar nearby, staring up at the ruined sky. "You ever notice," he said softly, "how they talk like the world's already ended?"
Sid didn't answer right away. His voice, when it came, was quieter than the wind.
"Maybe it has. And we just haven't caught up."
The Chain of Aeterion pulsed once more, like a distant heartbeat under the dying stars — waiting, listening, binding something neither of them yet understood.