"When you spoke of the laws of existence that even the Great Gods submit to... you did not mean the ones under Shadow, did you?"
The Heir of Weaver looked up.
Something about him sharpened, matching that of the masked man.
He did not answer.
The masked man looked at him for a moment before looking away.
Then—
Another man appeared.
Neither man bothered looking as the Cursed of Truth appeared at the center of the hall.
The masked man looked at him.
"Bane of Ariel..." he said, looking at him.
The Cursed of Truth turned to him.
"Whose presence is more fitting when speaking of what cannot be a lie than I?"
The masked man accepted the words.
The Cursed of Truth turned to the Heir of Weaver.
"Oh great Keeper of Fate, do you not know anything and everything?"
The Heir of Weaver stared from behind his mask.
"I do..."
The Cursed of Truth looked forth.
"In our last audience, we spoke of Weaving and Fate. You wished to speak of Weaving that night. Will you fulfill your word of speaking of Fate?"
The Heir of Weaver raised his head and looked at the Cursed of Truth.
"Ask what you wish."
The masked man looked on from his throne.
The Cursed of Truth did not wait.
"Oh great Keeper of Fate," he began, "how could you be the Heir of Weaver?"
Something about his voice tightened.
"When you do not bear the blood of the firstborn of the Unknown."
"..."
Silence settled in once more.
One would be offended at such words being spoken to them.
For the claim of a Divine lineage, even if a cursed one, to be named false could invoke wrath.
Yet the Heir of Weaver did not seem offended in the least.
His presence remained aloof.
The masked man sighed.
"Much like the Lord of Shadows..." he said, as if used to such behavior from the two figures.
"Well, they are..."
He did not finish what he muttered.
The masked man did not intervene, not because he feared these two, but because the knowledge that was being exposed to the realms was beyond what lesser souls could bear.
That deserved attention.
"...Why must one need Weaver's lineage to be their heir?" the Heir of Weaver spoke.
"..."
The Heir of Weaver looked up calmly.
"If one does not need the Daemon of Fate's lineage to perform Weaving, why would one need Weaver's lineage to be their heir?"
"..."
The words were as strange as they seemed.
How could one not need a being's lineage to be their heir?
And how could one perform Weaving without something bestowed by Weaver?
The Cursed of Truth, who had questioned the Heir of Weaver's knowledge of Weaving, asked that first.
"One does not need Weaver's lineage to practice Weaving?"
The Heir of Weaver looked down at him.
"Do you, the Bane of Ariel, not know the truth?"
The Cursed of Truth did not answer that.
The Heir of Weaver did not demand one.
His aloof gaze turned forward once more.
"There are no true records. However, there were those who followed Weaver and tried to learn Weaving from the two priests of the Nightmare Spell."
A pause.
"There were those who failed, and there were those who were said to have managed to gain a special form of essence control, a lesser form of Weaving... so not true Weaving. The threads can form, one can learn Weaving. However, the fundamental nature of Weaving will make it so one cannot force reality to accept the logic their essence formed."
The Cursed of Truth considered the words.
However, the masked man questioned him.
"So those who do not have the lineage of Weaver, or some of the powers bestowed by the Daemon of Fate to the likes of the priests of their Nightmare Spell, can practice Weaving, however they cannot make use of it...?" he asked.
"Precisely," the Cursed of Truth answered instead.
The masked man considered the words. Whether they came from the Heir of Weaver or the Bane of Ariel did not matter. They both knew truths of existence only they could know.
And the prices they had paid were the most harrowing of them all...
The Cursed of Truth was one of the three who sat on these thrones who could comprehend the knowledge of existence only the Heir of Weaver knew.
"So learning Weaving is useless if one does not possess the Daemon of Fate's lineage?"
"Indeed."
This time, the Heir of Weaver answered, his eyes still on the Cursed of Truth.
"Then what was the point?" the masked man asked. "Why did false Weaving exist when it couldn't be used? Why did Fate will it to exist?"
The Heir of Weaver did not take his gaze away from the Cursed of Truth.
And some moments later, the Cursed of Truth answered.
"In the old ages, not all possessed the Nightmare Spell. However, in today's age, the Nightmare Spell is carried by all Awakened, unlike the past, where all humans ascended naturally," he said.
The Heir of Weaver looked at the masked man now.
"However, now, if someone can learn Weaving, much like how the worthless work of most enchantments is finished by the Nightmare Spell, if those that learned false Weaving can perform weaving, their work will be turned into actual Weaving by the Nightmare Spell itself... Such is the nature of the Spell the great Daemon of Fate created."
"Ahh, and with the existence of the Nightmare Seeds, one can challenge a Nightmare and be turned into the right age where they could meet what remained of the Daemon of Fate's followers. After all, not all who learned the principles of Weaving were strong enough to need more than the Second Nightmare, or perhaps even the First one," the masked man theorized.
"The followers of Weaver were not many, yet not few enough that they cannot be found. While the chance can remain coincidental, they exist," the Cursed of Truth answered.
"Then I shall not be taken aback if someone can weave out there other than the great Keeper of Fate."
The masked man looked at the being.
"Are you aware of such an existence that bears both Weaver's Weaving and carries the Nightmare Spell?"
The Heir of Weaver considered the words.
"I am..." he began.
"Or rather, I was... There are many things I learned from the tapestry of Fate, ranging from the most harrowing primordial truths to the most mundane things."
A pause.
"However, I cast aside all that I did not consider important. So no, I do not know if there is someone among the carriers of the Nightmare Spell who learned Weaving. If there is one, I did not consider them important in the great tapestry of Fate."
He paused.
"However, take this with a grain of salt; the entire tale is a folk tale at most, most likely spread by Weaver, the Master of Lie to send those on his trail the false way."
"To send those who sought him the wrong way? Well you would know more than most about that, would you not, oh great Heir of Weaver?" The Masked Mask said.
The masked man and the Cursed of Truth did not speak for a moment.
"Then what about you, oh great Keeper of Fate?" the masked man asked.
The Heir of Weaver looked at him.
"How can you weave if the great Cursed of Truth claims you do not bear the lineage of the Daemon of Fate?"
He leaned back in his throne.
"Could you possibly be a carrier of the Nightmare Spell?" he asked.
The Heir of Weaver did not look at him as his gaze once again turned toward the darkness where the great tree had appeared not long ago.
"The Nightmare Spell? No. Weaver's little Spell came after the Doom War of the Great Gods and Daemons."
He paused and looked at the thrones in general.
"We who rebelled before the Doom War against the Great Gods existed before that. I do not carry the Nightmare Spell, much like the rest of us. I did not need the Spell, for I transcended naturally, unassisted by the Spell..."
Dark mist fell from the incomprehensible heights of the place as silence remained for a moment.
"I weave from the grace of my connection to the greatest of abominations."
No heads turned.
But all three turned their attention to—
No.
To think of that abomination would draw its attention.
At least, if they thought of it.
They did not desire that.
The Heir of Weaver looked at the Cursed of Truth.
"...You invoked my word for counseling of Fate, not Weaving, in this audience, did you not, oh great Cursed of Truth?" the Heir of Weaver began.
"Did you not ask me why I am the Heir of Weaver without carrying Weaver's lineage?"
The Cursed of Truth stepped forward.
"Enlighten me, oh great Keeper of Fate."
The Heir of Weaver looked up again as, once more, thousands upon thousands of golden threads formed in the air.
This time, they were created by the Transcendent Titans that once again appeared as vile birds and sat upon their created threads.
"I am the Heir of Weaver, for I can read the tapestry of Fate, much like Weaver, the Daemon of Fate."
A pause.
"And much like Weaver, I am helpless against the strings of Fate. I can read them, know what had happened, know what is happening, and know what will happen, yet I cannot change it. Much like the great Daemon of Fate, Weaver could not change it."
A deafening silence settled in the air.
The masked man and the Cursed of Truth felt a pressure upon their existence.
Such was the nature of knowledge that must not be known. Had someone who was not at least Awakened heard these words, they could have died from the knowledge alone.
"Oh great Keeper of Fate, how can you read what only the Daemon of Fate could? When you do not bear his lineage, how can you perceive the tapestry only he could?"
The Cursed of Truth asked.
The Heir of Weaver looked up into the endless heights, his eyes settling on the seven Transcendent Titans sitting as vile birds.
"I am the Heir of Weaver, for I am helpless against Fate. After all, how could I not be his heir when, despite his lineage, I could do no more than perceive Fate?"
He said nothing for a moment.
When he did, the words alone were enough to bring Ascended to their knees.
"In a starless sky, a wretched thief gazed upon a shining eye. Leaping forward, he stole the eye. Gazing into the eye, he saw what should not have been seen and succumbed to Corruption, as the eye fell into a mortal realm."
He paused as something behind his mask glowed.
Only for a moment.
They glowed.
Ethereal.
Entrancing.
Mesmerizing.
Melodious.
Divine.
"There appeared I, who stole Weaver's eye."
The Heir of Weaver spoke as trails of blood fell from beneath his mask, from his other eye and nose.
The Cursed of Truth and the masked man knew what that meant.
The great Heir of Weaver had used the eye and looked into the tapestry of Fate once again.
The Heir of Weaver closed his eyes, unbothered by the dark blood, as he rested his head back against the throne.
"Ahh... he won't be speaking for a while."
The masked man spoke.
"Such is the cost of knowing what must not be known."
The Cursed of Truth spoke.
The Heir of Weaver would need time for his existence itself to heal.
...
The heat of the forge hit their bodies, and Nephis watched Master Sunless standing between the King of Swords and the nine greatest smiths of Valor.
The nine smiths were looking at Sunless with hidden hostility.
The King of Swords obviously saw it, much like Nephis and Sunless, but did not say anything.
Nephis's jaw clenched.
Sunless did not seem bothered.
Several ores floated into the air and hovered toward the forge.
"Show me how you forge," the King looked at him, "and enchant."
Sunless looked at him for a moment with a smile.
"Anything specific, my King?"
"Make what you wish. Show me your skills," he said.
Sunless stared at him, then at the ores in the air.
For a few moments, he did not speak, observing the ores.
Then—
A light sigh escaped him.
The smiths smirked lightly before composing themselves quickly.
Both the King and Sunless knew what was happening.
The ores, even by Valor's standards, were at the lower end.
This was sabotage.
However, Sunless and Anvil were the kind of smiths who did not care for the ore's quality. They were smiths. They would judge the finished product not by unified standards if the talk was of skill, but by how much of the impurities the smith could bring out.
Sunless looked at the ores before he looked back, and his eyes settled on the two princesses.
A small smile came to his lips as he looked at Nephis, making her blink as her shoulders moved.
Then he stepped that way.
Nephis looked at him approaching.
However—
In the last few steps, he turned to—
"Princess Morgan, it is an honor to be in your presence."
Sunless bowed lightly as he offered his hand.
Morgan blinked in confusion but offered her gloved hand.
Instead of just taking hold of it—
Sunless took it gently and brought it close to his face as he bowed.
Morgan stood stiff at the gesture, not out of discomfort, but rather the opposite.
She was used to such gestures as formal ones, but most were too scared of her to even manage this much.
'He's brave.'
She thought, almost approvingly of the handsome man as the tips of her ears reddened.
Nephis, however, had her breath catch in her throat as her pupils widened.
'W-what?'
She thought in shock as an ugly twist formed in her stomach.
However, Sunless only pressed Morgan's hand to his forehead gently before stepping away.
Then—
He looked Morgan up and down and nodded.
Morgan blinked as her eyes narrowed... and her ears turned redder.
'...'
Nephis's mind blanked.
Sunless stepped back and, flashing Nephis a smile, walked back.
The smiths were watching in shock and bewilderment.
"Madman," someone muttered.
"He's flirting?"
"I DON'T THINK SO... BUT IF HE IS..."
"He's doing so to the two princesses in front of the King himself..."
To his credit, Anvil did not even give a reaction. His eyes tracked Sunless as the man went to the forge.
Looking at the ores, he nodded.
"Decent enough," he said.
The smiths stopped their reactions as they snapped to attention.
Anvil's eyes narrowed.
That was a claim.
That the quality of the ore would not interfere with the result he produced.
'Don't raise expectations without results,' he thought.
Sunless picked up an ore and tossed it in his hand, testing the weight and such as he looked at the forge.
His eyes narrowed as a disappointed sigh escaped him.
"Oh well..." he said.
Anvil narrowed his eyes again in question but did not speak.
Sunless used the manual method to turn the forge on as the ores began to melt.
Then—
The smiths stood up from their places and stepped forward.
For Sunless was using the advanced form of essence control to control the melting ores.
That alone placed him in the third hall, where less than fifty people were allowed to enter.
Anvil's expression did not change. If the sword Nephis had was made by Sunless, this much was expected.
The confirmation just made it better.
Sunless raised his hammer over his shoulder as the ore took the shape of a blade.
A familiar smile remained on his face.
Then—
CLANG!
Anvil's eyes widened for a moment as the hammer struck the forming blade.
'Precise.'
The first strike was accurate.
Which mattered because he had not even felt the melting ore, yet he judged it accurately from touching the ore alone. Of course, with essence to examine it like any sane Awakened smith, but still, melting an ore changed it completely. Controlling the temperature precisely and understanding the ore beforehand could come together to make the judgment easier, but essence-enhanced strikes made a great difference.
So much so that even the smiths before him were not always accurate.
'Still...'
Anvil raised his chin.
The first strike could be luck or actual skill. However, maintaining that level of accuracy was what mattered.
After all, a blade was not forged with one strike.
And yet—
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
The nine smiths watched in entranced awe as each strike remained precise.
Anvil's eyes narrowed.
From the slightly too little to the most minuscule changes in the amount of essence, through his Aspect, Anvil felt what the metal was feeling.
'This is...'
Anvil's chin lowered.
Morgan watched her father and the smiths before focusing on the forger.
Nephis, too, watched Sunless carefully.
She had just realized that this was the first time she had seen the Master practicing his craft.
It annoyed her somewhat that Morgan was here too now...
But she was gaining a better understanding from the reactions of the smiths and the emotions coming from Anvil.
She felt something from the cold Sovereign she never had before.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
The Master hammered steel without breaking focus. His rhythm changed every few strikes, and he seemed to only take his eyes off the metal when he stopped hammering, only to focus on every bubble and sound coming from the water when he dipped the metal into it, before repeating the process.
"The speed..." one smith muttered.
"The timing," another gulped as a bead of sweat rolled down his head.
"So accurate," another murmured.
While they could not even hope to judge Sunless as accurately as the King, they could tell his level at least matched theirs, if not outright soared past it.
To maintain that level of accuracy for each strike...
Anvil evaluated what he was watching.
And only one thing came to his mind.
Nephis's eyes narrowed as she felt the emotion from the King.
He was—
Pleased...
'Splendid.'
However, one thought remained.
His pupils narrowed.
'Is he not enchanting the blade?'
He thought but did not ask. Should the focus break—though he doubted Sunless's would—he didn't want to meddle with such craft.
'...How long has it been?'
He thought.
'Since I saw smithing this good from someone else?'
He appraised the Master for his skill from his youth.
Which brought another point.
Master Sunless was young.
Very young to be this skilled.
Just talent or an Aspect or anything could not explain the level of precision that he was using.
The only word that came to mind was...
'Effort.'
Relentless, grueling effort.
If time was not enough, the youth must have practiced from the beginning.
How many blades did he forge?
How many ores did he hammer?
How much had he practiced his craft for smithing alone to be at this level?
'A genius of the highest caliber,' Anvil surmised.
And all that before they saw enchanting.
'What kind of Aspect is his?' Anvil thought. 'Does it let him bypass the limitation of the enchantment quality before and after forging is complete?'
If so, the Aspect was very useful for a smith and an enchanter...
The relentless ringing of the hammer and the precision it held was fascinating, to say the least.
One could say the achievement was a once-in-a-blue-moon level of precision, perhaps rarer at the level it was being performed.
Eventually, Sunless finished the work.
As the intense heat of the forge dimmed, there stood Master Sunless, covered in sweat.
His black clothes made seeing through them nearly impossible.
Again, what a shame, huh?
After finishing the touch-ups, Sunless walked down the steps with the blade.
Anvil noted that the blade had a small hilt and a black handle with a darker blade.
However, what caught more attention was the streak of red following the center of the blade.
Anvil's eyes narrowed at that.
However, instead of giving it to Anvil, he walked to the two princesses and—
"Here you go, my lady."
He offered it to Morgan.
"Huh?"
Morgan let out.
'H-huh?'
Nephis's mind froze.
Sunless smiled as he spoke.
"A warrior's blade for a warrior princess," he said.
Nephis's mind blanked.
"..."
Morgan looked at him, then at Anvil in confusion before sighing and taking the blade.
However—
Morgan's eyes widened.
'This blade...'
She thought as she gripped it.
"Amazing..." she muttered as she forgot about the others and began testing it.
Sunless took a few steps back.
"The blade has two enchantments," he said.
Anvil's eyes sharpened as Morgan looked at him.
'What... when did he?'
Sunless gestured to the blade.
"Please pour your essence into it and make it a Memory first."
Morgan did so, and the Memory disappeared and reappeared in white sparks.
"The first enchantment is basic. It sharpens your blade passively while you fight. You should be able to cut through Ascended armor with ease," he explained as Morgan touched the sharp edge of the blade and nodded at the undoubtedly sharpened appearance.
Satisfaction flashed in her eyes.
"And the second one?" she asked.
Sunless smiled.
"If you could chip your blade, please," he asked.
Morgan blinked.
"What?"
She looked at him at the strange request.
Anvil saw where this was going as a sword flew toward Morgan.
Unthreatened, Morgan blocked the blade with hers.
Anvil had one more appraisal covered there.
Morgan looked at the chipped blade in her hands.
She had barely cut through, and a small crack and a light chip appeared.
After all, a Sovereign had hit the blade with his Aspect.
"Please pour essence into the blade," he said.
Morgan did, and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise as the cracks and chip restored themselves quickly.
"The second enchantment allows you to fix cracks and chips instantly if you pour some essence into it," Sunless explained.
Morgan examined the blade.
"The proportions?" she muttered.
It was sound enough.
Sunless smiled.
"I adjusted the weight and balance according to your hand, height, weight, and grip," he said.
Morgan blinked.
So did the others.
Nephis looked at Sunless in confusion alongside the others.
"How did you...?"
She trailed off.
"You got the details when you examined her."
Anvil's voice cut through as the blade flew to his hands.
Everyone looked at him as Morgan's lips pressed into a line at losing the blade.
The childlike joy and swordswoman within her wanted the blade back instantly.
Anvil did not look at anyone as he poured essence into the blade to examine it once more while explaining.
"You measured her approximations when you greeted her and held her hand, then looked at her overall to get approximate dimensions and height," he said.
Nephis should have realized from earlier.
Some tension left her shoulders, but her fingers curled as she glanced at Morgan.
The woman's face was calm, but her ears were a shade of pink at the wording.
Anvil did not care.
Sunless did not seem to care.
But the girls did, because—
Morgan had to acknowledge that Sunless was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.
Nephis was more busy not acknowledging the reason for her annoyance.
Either way—
"The red streak," Anvil asked.
Sunless tilted his head.
"Yes?"
"What is that for?" he asked.
Some smiths stiffened.
Sunless did not.
In fact, he smiled.
"Oh, that? It's for aesthetics, really," he said as he glanced back and smiled at Morgan.
"I saw the red ore and figured the color matched Princess Morgan's eyes, nothing more."
He looked back—
And missed the pink that appeared on Morgan's face.
And the faint frown on Nephis's.
"H-huh?" Morgan let out.
Unaware of the light glare Nephis threw her way.
And once again—
Anvil did not care.
Sunless did not seem to notice.
'Again...' Anvil thought as he controlled the essence.
'Not as precise as the last one, but still...'
He glanced at the man who had shown his blade to him the day he saw Sunless's first created work.
'Still leagues above his while having another enchantment...'
He looked at Sunless.
"What kind of Aspect do you have?" he asked.
People stiffened.
Nephis glanced between Sunless and Anvil.
She knew Sunless's enchanting was not from his Aspect, and his skill was unique.
'This is...'
She thought as worry crept in.
Sunless smiled.
"My Aspect?" he began.
"It's a utility kind. I didn't really even like it when I got it. Couldn't even hurt a kitten with it," he said.
Some blinked.
Someone muttered,
"A non-combat Aspect."
Anvil was about to begin.
"But it's not related to my enchanting, if you're interested in that," Sunless said.
Anvil's focus shifted.
"Then how do you enchant?"
Nephis curled her fingers.
They were at the problematic part.
Sunless did not stop smiling.
"Sorcery..."
Some people looked at him.
Anvil narrowed his eyes.
"Sorcery?"
"Yes."
Enchanting through Sorcery was very difficult, and very few had managed to master it to an extent where they could use it effectively.
Nephis and Anvil themselves were such examples. Cassie had learned the rune kind.
Anvil looked at him.
"What kind?"
Nephis's jaw tightened.
"Sorcery of Names," Sunless answered.
'Huh?'
Nephis thought.
"Huh?"
Someone actually let out.
All Sorcery had the Sorcery of Names... they were just divided into different kinds.
Morgan's eyebrows twitched.
Sunless kept smiling.
Anvil stared at him.
"Where did you learn?"
"In my Nightmare."
Everyone did.
"First or second?"
"Second."
"Who taught you Sorcery?"
"A sorcerer."
Someone coughed.
Nephis stared.
Everyone did.
"What the hell is he..." someone muttered.
Anvil's gaze sharpened.
"Which Sorcery?"
There—
Sunless's smile did not falter.
"The Sorcery of Names, of the rune kind," he said.
'Same as Cassie...'
Nephis thought, but a question came.
Cassie did not know any kind of method to apply Sorcery in such a manner.
Anvil's eyes narrowed.
Clearly, Sunless did not want to share such knowledge.
And clearly, the man knew he could not get away without answering either.
His hope was probably that his craft was respected.
At least for now.
A gamble.
However, the King of Swords had never shown such courtesy to others.
Anvil looked at him for a moment.
Then—
He moved and walked past him.
"We're done here," he said.
No one had shown Anvil such craftsmanship either.
Nephis looked at Sunless with relief.
Sunless smiled at her again.
The trial was over.
...
The Heir of Weaver was still resting when the Cursed of Truth and the masked man looked at each other.
"Tell me," the masked man began as the Cursed of Truth looked at him.
"Tell me, oh great Cursed of Truth, why do you seek knowledge you already possess? What is the reason you consult the great Keeper of Fate?"
The Cursed of Truth looked at the man before turning to ascend the steps of his throne.
"Why?" He asked.
"Is it not obvious? I may possess knowledge of existence."
Step.
"However, I am bound by Truth, and Truth can only be something that has happened."
He paused as he stopped before his throne, a hand resting on the armrest.
The masked man did not pull the Cursed of Truth out of his thoughts, and eventually, the man sat down on his throne.
"The great Keeper of Fate, a being that should be revered for the burden he carries and moves despite it," He paused and glanced at the sleeping figure.
"Is someone who knows what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen," he paused.
"A truth can be vile, but in the end, it is just that—Truth... and a truth that has not come to be cannot be truth."
The masked man leaned forward lightly.
"Are you saying what I think you are, oh great Cursed of Truth?"
The Cursed of Truth tilted his head.
"Knowing all Truth only brings more questions that cannot be answered," he began.
"It unveils paths that are being led to. In the end, I know everything that is Truth, and for that, I will never know any truth..."
The masked man considered these words.
"...Were the Great Gods and Daemons not above time?" he asked as the Cursed of Truth looked at him.
"They knew we would come eventually... they still exist even now in their eternal slumber. They may be watching," he revealed.
The Cursed of Truth stared at him calmly as the masked man spoke.
"They knew what would happen... so how could you, Cursed of Truth, not know what Fate holds when you were cursed by the Daemon who held all truths...?"
"...Was Ariel not both above time and knew all the Truth that would come to exist?"
"Anything that is true is true because it will happen. However how can anythign happen if fate did not will it to happen?" the cursed of truth said.
"So tell me, oh great Cursed of Truth, were you not cursed with the knowledge of the future as well?"
The Cursed of Truth raised his head, not focused on anything.
The air thickened as another revelation was uttered.
"Fate is different... Ariel knew the future because it will happen. The Great Gods knew the future because they watched it as the laws of existence that they are..."
He paused.
"However, Fate?"
"Fate is what willed it to happen... if Fate did not will it to happen, what could?"
He explained.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
"But still," the masked man began, "you possess the knowledge of Truths of the past, of the present, and of the future... do you or do you not know what Fate has in store, oh great Cursed of Truth?"
The Cursed of Truth answered.
"I would," he said.
"However, the script that is Truth itself, the knowledge I possess, comes from the script of reality, realtiy that is Fate, and Fate is absolute and unchangeable."
"Fate is absolute?"
A pressure of the Transcendent descended upon the thrones.
"Fate is absolute?" he siad questionly.
"No."
A presence descended.
"...However, only if Fate wishes to change."
The air thickened as neither spoke for some time.
"Fate...? Wishes to change...?"
The masked man tested the words, yet it did not sound like he doubted them.
"What could will Fate to change, oh great Cursed of Truth?"
"Nothing..." he paused.
"Nothing that exists, at least..."
"Then—"
The masked man was cut off.
"Carefully."
The voice was calm and soft, yet it carried weight.
"Let us not provoke the greatest of abominations."
His voice sharpened.
"Unless you wish for your existence to be destroyed."
A moment of silence settled.
"Very well," the masked man accepted.
Another moment of silence.
The Cursed of Truth did not speak for a long moment.
A very long moment.
Then—
He paused as a light sigh escaped him.
"However, what is true is that," he was cut off
The reason that the Cursed of Truth revealed was great enough; the air itself trembled at the words as the two Transcendents felt the faint pressure.
Suddenly, the pressure disappeared.
Both gazes turned to the Heir of Weaver.
Then—
The Heir of Weaver did not wake.
Not yet.
However, he obviously knew what they would talk about once he fell asleep, and from his slumber, he invoked his Transcendent pressure.
The Cursed of Truth looked at him.
"You asked if the Great Gods and Daemons were above time?" he said.
The masked man looked at him.
"The Great Gods and Daemons did exist above time, and yet..."
He paused.
"Yet they did not..." he said.
The masked man knew what he meant.
"If they did..." the Cursed of Truth continued.
"Even if not but a few..."
Their gazes drifted to another throne.
"How did he imprison them for all of eternity?"
...
Silence remained in the hall for a long time.
"Either way," the Cursed of Truth spoke again as the masked man looked at him.
"The great Keeper of Fate exists above me for the knowledge of what is to come. Even I, who carry the Truths of the future, cannot say I know the Truth. While he knows why Fate willed for it to happen."
He paused.
"And yet, whether we know the consequence or the reason, nothing in this existence that bows to Fate can defy Fate."
Once again, silence reigned.
"I am curious..." he paused. "Or maybe not."
The Cursed of Truth looked up.
"Why are you questioning me of the future?" he asked.
"After all, even among us, only you understand what it means to see the futures even Fate cannot write, do you not?" he revealed.
The masked man did not answer as the air around him changed, his gaze drifting away.
The Cursed of Truth called.
"Oh great Seer of Paths, Bane of Niether, The Daemon of Destiny."
...