The God's killer

The Fractured Throne

Chapter 8: The Fractured Throne

Above the mortal sky, beyond the reach of stars and seasons, there stood a palace carved from breath and will—a citadel of pure divine thought, unseen by mortal eyes. It was not built with hands, but born from the very concept of dominion.

This was Solstice Spire, the seat of the Pantheon.

Within its highest chamber—the Hall of Concord—twelve thrones encircled an infinite void. Each throne pulsed with the distinct energy of its occupant: law, war, wisdom, love, shadow, storm, and more—each aspect of existence given divine form.

But the thirteenth throne stood empty.

Cracked.

Blackened.

Once, Kael had sat there, radiant and terrible. The God of Equilibrium—warrior and judge, maker of peace through fire and steel. Now, only a jagged scar of absence remained.

Today, that scar pulsed again. And the gods had gathered.

“He survived.”

The voice came from Solan, the Warden of Order, robed in chains of light. His eyes were blindfolded, for the truths he saw would blind the world. His words echoed with law and consequence.

“The Herald failed,” muttered Virel, Goddess of Shadows, her voice like curling smoke. “Impossible. She has never failed.”

“He remembered the Old Name,” came a soft voice from the throne of memory. Myress, Keeper of Secrets. Her skin shimmered with moving script, stories written across her body like sacred tattoos. “Not even the highest of us remember it clearly.”

“He was supposed to be dead.”

That was Tharos, God of War, whose armor clanged with each breath. “We struck him down. Burned his essence. Cast him into the Void.”

“And still he returns,” said a new voice—deep, feminine, laced with thunder. It was Aeris, Goddess of Storms and Judgment, her throne shaped from clouds pierced by lightning. “Reborn as a mortal, bound by flesh… and now wielding the Root Flame.”

Whispers rose among the thrones.

The Root Flame—the first weapon, forged before time. Lost since Kael's execution. Hidden beneath mortal soil.

Now found.

Now drawn.

Solan struck his staff against the void. The echoes silenced all voices.

“Then we must act,” he said. “Now. Before he regains his full strength. Before the mortals rally behind him.”

But Virel leaned forward, her eyes gleaming from behind her veil of darkness. “Act how, Warden? We already broke the Accord once by sending the Herald. If we press further, the Bound Realms will fracture. Do you wish to start the Cataclysm anew?”

A rumble passed through the chamber. The word Cataclysm was never spoken lightly. It referred to the first war—when gods killed gods, and Kael had risen as the arbiter who ended it all.

And then they had betrayed him for it.

Myress’s eyes closed slowly. “Perhaps we are not facing the return of a god… but the return of justice.”

“Blasphemy!” Tharos roared. “He was a traitor. He sided with mortals. He questioned divine will.”

“Because divine will was stained with fear,” Myress snapped back. “We sentenced him not for betrayal—but for reminding us what we were.”

More murmurs. Some gods sat in stiff silence. Others fidgeted in their seats. The truth hung in the air, unspoken but undeniable: Kael’s death had not been unanimous.

“Enough,” Solan commanded. “We will vote.”

The staff lifted and spun once in the air before settling.

“Two questions shall decide our course,” Solan intoned. “First: Do we act now to destroy the Reborn? Second: If so, do we act directly or through mortal proxy?”

The thrones began to shimmer, each god casting their vote not with hands or speech, but by shifting the aura of their thrones.

Four thrones glowed red. Destroy him now, with divine force.

Three glowed grey. Wait. Observe. Understand the threat.

Two glowed black. Do nothing. Let fate decide.

And three remained… uncertain. Flickering. Torn.

Solan’s face darkened beneath his blindfold.

“This is… unprecedented.”

Aeris rose slowly. Her voice held storm and wisdom. “Perhaps there is a third path. One we fear, but may be necessary.”

She raised her hand, and from her palm emerged a spiral of silver flame—a key, ancient and forbidden.

“The Mortal Crucible,” she said. “Let him face what lies beneath the world. If he survives that trial, then we know.”

“Know what?” Virel hissed.

Aeris looked around the chamber.

“If he is meant to reclaim the Thirteenth Throne.”

Silence fell.

Even Solan did not speak.

Because deep within each of them, behind the pride and fear, they remembered the last time Kael sat among them… and how the world had almost ended trying to remove him.

Far below, on the mortal plane, Kael awoke suddenly in the night, heart pounding.

He had felt it: not just eyes upon him—but a debate. A weighing.

And across the room, Lira stirred too.

She did not speak. She simply reached for his hand again.

Kael whispered into the shadows, “They’re afraid.”

And something in the night answered—not in words, but in laughter.

Not from a god.

Not from a mortal.

But from something even older.

Watching.

Waiting.

And smiling.