**Ten Years Later.**
**Valderia. City of Lumiére.**
Lumiére no longer prayed.
The city had grown beyond the need.
Its streets were wider, paved with dark stone polished by constant movement. Towers rose where sanctuaries once stood, their architecture sharp, functional, stripped of devotion. Markets overflowed with voices—different accents, different faces, different histories. No one lowered their eyes anymore. No one hid their skin.
Order had replaced faith.
At the city's center stood the castle.
Once white. Once sacred. Once devoted to a goddess who promised protection and delivered fear.
Now it was black.
Obsidian walls stretched upward like a verdict carved into the sky. Red veins ran through the stone, not decorative, but structural—remnants of old Valderian metallurgy fused with something far older. The gates stood open at all hours. Not because the city was safe.
Because resistance had become pointless.
Inside, the throne room waited.
There was only one throne.
It dominated the hall, forged from dark alloy and ancient stone, its surface scarred intentionally. No gems. No symbols of worship. No traces of Lumara's design. The throne was not meant to inspire awe.
It was meant to **end arguments**.
Lucien sat upon it.
He was no longer the boy who hid his hair beneath a hood. The man on the throne wore black armor reinforced with red bindings that crossed his body like deliberate restraints. A long, torn cloak fell from his shoulders, dark crimson, its edges frayed by time rather than neglect.
His hair, deep red, was pulled back tightly. His beard was long, braided at the center, bound with a single clasp of black metal. His face carried no softness. Not cruelty either.
Only permanence.
Golden light rested behind his eyes—not glowing, not unstable. Controlled. Contained. The remaining essence of Kharos no longer fought him. It existed within him the way gravity exists within a star.
Lucien had not become a god.
He had **replaced one**.
Below the throne, officials stood in silence, afraid to speak unless commanded.
A single report was placed at Lucien's feet.
He did not read it.
"I already know," he said.
The room stiffened.
"All remaining followers of Lumara have been imprisoned," Lucien continued calmly. "Their temples sealed. Their scriptures archived. Their symbols erased from public space."
No one dared to interrupt.
"I will not execute them," Lucien said. "Martyrdom strengthens lies. Memory weakens them."
He stood.
The hall seemed smaller as he descended the steps. Each footfall echoed with unnatural weight—not from magic, but from certainty.
"Lumara ruled Valderia through fear disguised as order," Lucien said. "She demanded worship because she feared irrelevance."
His fingers curled slowly.
"I will not repeat her mistake."
Lucien turned toward the massive windows overlooking Lumiére. From here, the entire city was visible—alive, loud, imperfect.
"Valderia no longer belongs to gods," he said. "Not to those above it. Not to the one standing within it."
The golden light flickered once in his eyes.
"I am its Divine Creator," Lucien said. "And that title is a responsibility, not a throne."
Silence followed.
Deep beneath the city, far below prisons and foundations, something ancient stirred—not summoned, not awakened, but **alerted**.
The world had noticed the absence of Lumara.
And it had noticed the presence of something far more dangerous.
A god who did not ask to be loved.
A ruler who understood restraint.
Ten years after the forest burned, Valderia stood balanced on a blade.
And far away, in another corner of the world, a doctor would soon begin recording the consequences.