I. The Weight of Grace
The Solar Council chamber was a cathedral of glass and gold, yet it felt as small as a tomb. The five High Saints sat in a semi-circle, draped in the suffocating silence of Lÿkøn.
Seraphine sat perfectly still, her hands resting on her knees. Inside, her mind was a storm of static. Did the Hollow Guards see us? Did the sensors catch the violet spark of the Įshtärį? She tightened her mental "Protection" protocols, forcing her face into a slab of unreadable marble.
To her left, Zerø, the Saint of Unprecedented Rage, gripped the arms of his throne. A thick vein pulsed in his neck like a trapped snake. His gauntlets hummed, bleeding a shimmering, distorted heat that made the air around him ripple. He didn't just look angry; he looked like a volcano held together by sheer willpower.
Opposite him, Kælthør, the Saint of Icy Malice, was his polar opposite. His eyes glowed a frost-bitten blue. Where Zerø was heat, Kælthør was a void. The floor beneath his boots was etched with intricate, jagged frost patterns that seemed to creep toward Zerø's side of the room.
Vespïra leaned back, her massive hammer—a terrifying slab of ivory and iron—resting against her shoulder. Her pink energy, Ivån, flickered around her fingers like static electricity. She didn't look at the others; she looked down at them, her ego radiating a physical weight that made the room feel heavy.
At the center sat Kÿį. He was the only one who didn't manifest his power. He sat with his eyes closed, his ancient sword resting across his lap. He looked less like a warrior and more like a statue of a forgotten era.
II. The Architect of Truth
The heavy obsidian doors groaned open. The silence didn't just break; it fled.
King Somýîr entered. He didn't wear armor; he wore the authority of a god. His yellow eyes swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Seraphine.
"Pardon my tardiness," he said. His voice was a smooth, melodic purr that carried no genuine apology.
"Why were we summoned?" Zerø's voice was a growl. His gauntlets flared bright orange. "My Gift aches to destroy something. Unless Kælthør is finally ready to spar? I grow tired of freezing my blood just to look at him."
"I do not spar with beasts," Kælthør replied, his voice like cracking ice. "And I have no desire to kill a comrade today. It would be a waste of my Malice."
Vespïra let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "The two of you are children playing with matches. If you want a real display, I demand a re-crowning ceremony for the Saint of Purification." She glared at Seraphine. "I have polished the walls of Bjørň with the blood of better warriors than you, 'Mirror'."
Somýîr raised a single, pale hand. The room went cold.
"Vħìnçka 91:30," the King recited, his eyes half-closed in feigned ecstasy. "Five stars shall fall into the palm of the Father, and through their diverse burning, the shadows shall be cleansed. One of rage, one of frost, one of iron, one of steel... and one to reflect the Purity of the Light."
He smiled, a toothy, hollow expression. "How wonderful it is to rely on such Holy Saints. My father, the King of Salvation, would be proud of the mirrors I have polished."
"Lÿkøn," the Saints chanted in unison. The ancient word felt like a collar tightening around Seraphine's throat.
III. The Mission
"I assume you didn't call us for a sermon, Somýîr," Kÿį said, opening his eyes. They were grey and deep, like a stormy sea. "You only quote the Vħìnçka when you are about to ask for blood."
"Astute as always, ancient one," the King replied. He pointed a finger at the map on the central table. "Demons are rising in the Border Provinces. The Įshtärį—as the heretics call them—are growing bold. They are slaughtering the 'Grace' harvesters."
He turned his yellow gaze to Seraphine. "Seraphine, Kælthør, and Zerø. You three will depart at dawn. Purify the land. Leave nothing but ash."
Zerø's gauntlets roared like a caged beast. Kælthør's frost turned to jagged black ice.
Seraphine felt a cold sweat prickle her skin. Her right eye began to spiral—not out of aggression, but out of fear. Ashēn's voice echoed in her mind: We are not demons. We are kin.
"YOU NEVER SEND ME!" Vespïra screamed, slamming her fist onto the table. Pink energy erupted from her skin, threatening to level the room.
Before she could stand, an invisible, crushing force slammed into her. Vespïra was flung back into her seat as if a giant's hand had pressed her down. The King didn't move a muscle; he simply glared.
"Need I remind you of the 'collateral' in Bjørň, Vespïra?" Somýîr asked softly. "Your ego is a tool, not a master. Do not let it speak again."
Vespïra went pale, nodding frantically as the invisible weight lifted.
"Council is dismissed," the King said, turning his back.
"Hıąkį," the Saints chanted. Gratitude. A lie.
Seraphine stood up, her legs feeling like lead. She was being sent to kill the very people Ashēn said were her brothers. The "Mirror" was no longer reflecting the King—it was beginning to show her own fear.