The throne room was silent. Not the peaceful silence of contemplation. The heavy, suffocating silence of a storm waiting to break. The light that usually filled the space had dimmed, retreating to the edges, leaving the center in a grey, indeterminate gloom.
The Father sat in the heart of it, His face unreadable, His hands resting on the arms of His throne. Before Him, the Son stood with His hands clasped, His expression troubled. Beside Him, the Spirit shimmered, its form flickering between solid and ethereal, its usual calm replaced by a restlessness that made the air thick.
Metatron stood at the threshold, his countless eyes lowered. He had delivered the report. The souls were free. The gods were whole. The battle was turning. He waited for the storm.
"You let this happen," the Father said. His voice was quiet. That was what made it terrifying. Not a roar. Not a condemnation. Just a statement of fact, delivered with the weight of absolute certainty.
