CEREMONY GROUNDS
The air was too still. The priests around the circle held their breath, robes fluttering like waiting wings. On the dais, five thrones pulsed faintly with divine magic—golden auras, pale silver light, fire flickers, and one seat wreathed in curling shadow.
Erevan stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. He closed his eyes.
And in the spiritual plane, five gods stirred.
But it was not their names that whispered first.
Instead—
"There she is," a voice purred at Carlos's ear. Cool, smoky. Familiar.
Carlos blinked and stiffened, turning slightly. His god, the one who rarely intervened unless absolutely necessary, was watching from within him.
"There's our friend's name, right there."
Carlos's brows drew together. "Who?"
"The Queen of Night. Persephone."
Carlos's heart paused.
"The Greek god?"
"She doesn't play with lives as toys," the god whispered, voice hushed, reverent. "She only accepts those who suffer with grace. She is just. Stern. She walks among the dying and does not flinch. Perfect for your brother."
Carlos's mind raced. Persephone? One of the foreign pantheon, not part of the Empire's five. No one outside the Circle had chosen a Greek god in centuries—not since the wars of blessings.
Carlos pressed his palm against his chest, grounding himself. "Can I trust her?"
"You trust me."
Carlos exhaled. "I barely do."
His god laughed softly.
"With the pressure those priests were giving, I think your brother ends at choosing The Justice God again."
Carlos looked at his brother again," Yes, he would."
"That makes two of us. Go. Stop him before the others chain his fate."
Without thinking, Carlos stepped forward from the crowd, cutting through gasps, robes, and ceremonial murmurs. The priests froze. Kave cursed behind him.
"Carlos!" Lumira hissed.
But Erevan had already opened his mouth.
The priest raised a hand. "Speak, Your Majesty. Which god do you—"
"Wait!" Carlos called, voice clear as steel.
Every gaze turned to him.
Erevan turned too, confused. "Carlos?"
Carlos moved quickly, stepping onto the dais, grabbing his brother's wrist. "Don't choose yet. Listen to me."
There was a pause. Time stilled again.
Carlos's voice dropped, just between the two of them. "There's another. One not offered. She's not part of their game."
Erevan's eyes widened slightly. "Who?"
Carlos met his eyes. "Persephone."
"Persephone?"
And something shifted. The shadowed throne on the dais flickered—twice. Then a faint petal drifted across the stone, black as ink. It shimmered like glass, melting into Erevan's path.
The priests gasped. "That is not one of ours—!"
"Silence," Carlos snapped. "You asked for a god. You didn't say which."
A low rumble tore through the temple.
The sky darkened slightly.
And then—
A voice. A woman's voice. Cold as winter, soft as velvet, and ancient beyond time.
"You called, little king?"
From the heavens, a shape began to descend.
A throne of obsidian roots, woven with flowers blooming from corpses. A woman seated in stillness, with a crown of moonlight and the scent of rich earth clinging to her like perfume.
Persephone.
The priests fell to their knees. Even the High Priest staggered back.
Carlos swallowed hard. "She came."
Persephone's eyes—deep, bottomless, tired—rested on Erevan. She did not smile.
"I am not kind," she said softly. "But I am fair. I will take nothing that is not already yours to give."
And Erevan—trembling but standing—bowed his head.
"I do not want glory," he whispered. "Only to protect my people. My brother."
She nodded once. And in a single, quiet moment—
—The mark of Persephone bloomed over his heart.
A black crown. A seedling. A blade of silver ivy.
The crowd erupted—chaos and reverence at once.
Carlos stood by, unsure if he should breathe.
Then—
BOOM.
The ground split.
A scream tore from one of the priest towers. Something was falling from the sky—no, someone. An armored figure crashed into the outer courtyard, sending debris flying. Horns blared. The sacred veil above the ceremony shimmered with cracks.
Carlos pulled his brother behind him instantly, sword already drawn.
The goddess didn't move.
From the smoke, a single, war-marked envoy stepped forward. Armor melted with blessing scars, eyes burning with divine fire. A messenger of an angry god.
He looked up, directly at Erevan.
"You have chosen wrong, boy king," he spat. "And now the gods will correct you."