The arena lay in ruin. Smoke coiled through the air, faint streaks of lightning still rippling across the shattered sky. Eryndor stood at the center of it all, his expression unreadable beneath the faint blue arcs still trailing from his fingertips. Kaelus leaned against the remains of the barrier, eyes half-open, bleeding—but smiling. The silence that followed Rein's disappearance wasn't peace. It was a warning.
High above, the divine rift sealed with a whisper—threads of gold folding into nothing.
Then came the murmurs. The audience—patriarchs, nobles, generals—speaking in hushed disbelief.
"A God Candidate… here?"
"That's forbidden—completely forbidden…"
"And he addressed Eryndor as heir of the Voidborn Lineage…"
Zephyr Nasarik was the first to move. His presence alone silenced the crowd again. "Clear the arena," he said, voice calm but absolute. "This event is over."
Aldric followed, cloak brushing against the cracked marble floor. His gaze drifted toward Eryndor—part pride, part concern. "You've just attracted the eyes of the divine, boy," he muttered under his breath. "That's not something you can outrun."
That night, the council convened.
Within the Grand Hall of Nasarik Estate, the atmosphere was sharp. Elders, generals, and magisters filled the circular chamber. In the center, a projection of Rein's image hovered in pale blue light—his golden hair, violet eyes, and the sigils burning faintly on his tunic.
Zephyr spoke first. "You've all seen the markings. Dominion Authority. He's no ordinary divine offshoot. He's a Candidate of the Dominion Seat."
Kaelus sat beside Eryndor, still bandaged, listening quietly.
"The God Candidates," Aldric continued, "are not worshippers—they are hosts. Each one bears the essence of a god's fragmented will. Dominion, Authority, Chaos, Order, Balance, Creation… The major six. Every millennium, when a divine slumber ends, those fragments seek resonance in mortal vessels."
"Survivors," Zephyr added darkly, "if they can endure the pain. Out of millions chosen, less than ten live."
"And those who do," Aldric went on, "are gathered by the Elemental God Academy—a citadel floating between dimensions. It's where the divine fragments are refined, molded, and balanced. A place where mortals learn to channel divine essence without burning themselves alive."
Kaelus frowned. "So they're trained… like us?"
"Hardly," Zephyr said. "They don't learn techniques. They learn laws. Where we manipulate mana, they manipulate reality."
Eryndor's eyes flickered faintly, recalling Rein's calm, effortless dominance. "And yet," he said quietly, "he bled."
Zephyr smiled faintly at that. "He did. Which means he's not complete. That's the only reason you're alive."
Two days later, the Nasarik family held a gathering in the estate's grand hall. The war heroes, the descendants, even political allies—all attended. It was supposed to be a celebration of victory, a reaffirmation of the Nasarik name after the battle with Vorathrax. Instead, tension pulsed like an invisible current.
Lazarus Solvik was there.
Clad in a white cloak lined with sigil-thread, his smile was polite, almost disarming. But Eryndor had seen too much to be fooled by warmth. The man's aura was cold—a storm frozen under silk.
He approached the young Nasarik heir with a goblet in hand. "You've become quite the spectacle, Eryndor. The gods themselves whisper your name now."
Eryndor gave him a flat look. "I'm not flattered."
Lazarus chuckled softly, swirling the wine. "You should be. There's a reason they sent Rein. The Dominion Seat doesn't act without intent. You're a variable in their prophecy—a wild card. Join me, and I can show you how to use that."
"Join you?" Eryndor tilted his head, voice deceptively calm. "You mean kneel?"
Lazarus' smile twitched. "You misunderstand. I'm offering you purpose. You carry a heritage the heavens themselves want erased. But under my guidance, you could ascend—beyond lineage, beyond mortality."
"Sounds familiar," Eryndor said, his voice turning colder. "I've heard better lies from corpses."
The room went quiet.
Lazarus' eyes hardened. "You don't know what you're rejecting, boy."
Eryndor's aura shifted. Just slightly. Enough to make the chandeliers hum. "You don't know what you're provoking."
It happened in an instant.
Lazarus raised his hand. A black sigil formed—a compressed sphere of divine mana, thrumming with annihilation.
But before the spell could release, a hand struck it aside.
The magic shattered like glass.
Aldric stood between them, one hand smoking from the force of the deflection, his golden eyes narrowing dangerously.
"That," he said, voice a low rumble, "was your last mistake."
The air dropped ten degrees.
Behind Lazarus, the faint scrape of metal rang out.
Zephyr Nasarik stood there—his sword already drawn, the edge glowing with blue light—its tip resting right at Lazarus' throat.
Lazarus froze.
The aura that rolled off the two men was oppressive—so heavy even the divine whisper within Lazarus' veins hesitated.
Aldric stepped closer, eyes sharp. "You may be untouchable in the divine courts, Lazarus… but here?"
He smiled, thin and dangerous. "This is Nasarik ground. You try that again, and I'll remind you what it means to bleed like a man."
Zephyr leaned in slightly, the edge of his blade kissing Lazarus' neck. "Or I will."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the attendants dared not breathe.
Lazarus' face flickered through anger, pride, and something else—fear. He stepped back slowly, lowering his hand. "You're playing a dangerous game, Zephyr. Protecting an anomaly that even gods watch."
"Maybe," Zephyr said calmly, sheathing his sword. "But this 'anomaly' is my son."
As Lazarus turned to leave, his cloak rippling, Eryndor's voice called after him—quiet, but sharp enough to cut the air.
"Next time," he said, "don't send someone else to test me. Come yourself."
Lazarus paused at the door, his expression unreadable.
Then, without another word, he vanished.
Zephyr exhaled slowly. "The divine will not stop here," he murmured.
Eryndor nodded. "Neither will I."
And as the night deepened over the Nasarik estate, the storm that had been silent for centuries began to stir once more.