The light of the Hall had not faded, but it had shifted—quieter now, like the stillness after a storm. Qaritas stood in the center of it all, his shadow-hand pulsing softly where Ayla still held him, the weight of silence still clinging to his spine.
Then—he rose.
The man who had issued the challenge. The enforcer.
His throne pulsed behind him with bands of shifting logic and law, inscriptions coiling upward like molten verdicts. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, a force that bent not with time, but to it.
"I am Jrin," he said. "Ascendant of Order. Guardian of Law. And I stand not to accuse, but to clarify."
Around the chamber, postures stiffened. One Ascendant folded their arms tighter, another shifted their weight, face unreadable beneath a veil of glasslight. None interrupted. None dared.
He stepped down from his throne, each step folding reality slightly inward—measured, perfect.
"The Path of Becoming," he continued, "is not a punishment. It is precedent. Every Ascendant who has exhibited signs of fracture—those who echo what came before—must walk it."
One of the silent Ascendants—veiled in dust and light—whispered just loud enough for silence to carry it:
"He didn't burn like the First. But neither did the First, when he was new."
A ripple of unease stirred through the hall.
"But none walk it alone. That is the core of our code. We do not cast out our own. We walk beside them. If they fall, we fall with them."
He turned to Qaritas, gaze impassive.
"You will walk the Path. Not because you are guilty, but because you are unknown. And we do not allow the unknown to remain unanswered."
Qaritas straightened, the shadows on his form no longer flickering—they held.
"Then I will walk it."
Jrin inclined his head, as if the decision had been inevitable all along.
"You may choose six Ascendants to accompany you. Witnesses. Partners. Weapons, if need be. You will have one month to decide."
He turned back toward his throne—but not before adding:
"They must choose you, too."
Chosen. Not summoned. Not created. A part of him flinched at the word. Had anyone ever chosen him before now?
A quiet breath passed through the hall.
Qaritas didn't breathe for a moment. He wasn't sure he could. The idea of choosing—and being chosen—felt too large for one body to hold.
And then, almost immediately, Ayla stepped forward.
"I volunteer," she said simply.
No protest. No hesitation. Her voice was a statement carved in light.
Komus stood next. "He should not face the Path without Space at his side. I walk with him."
Niraí laughed softly, rising from her throne. "Stars, I haven't had an adventure in several epochs. I'll come. Someone needs to open the gates."
Cree lifted their head from Hydeius's chest. "Rebirth cannot allow Becoming to pass by unaided. I will walk."
Hydeius's voice followed like thunder beneath moonlight. "Souls have whispered about him since before his awakening. I must know why."
Five.
Five had already spoken.
Qaritas blinked—and for a moment, the air around him folded inward, a silence so dense it pulled at the light. He felt it again: the thing inside him, not malevolent, but vast.
I am not empty, it whispered.
He swallowed, steadying his stance. Not yet.
The murmurs rose among the unknowns, the unspoken names stirring just beyond light and form. Some curious. Some skeptical.
But not hostile.
Not yet.
Qaritas stood in the middle of it all, unsure what to feel. Gratitude? Pressure? He could not yet name the weight blooming in his chest.
Ayla turned toward him, her voice quieter now, but firm.
"You're not alone in this."
Cree smiled faintly, phoenix-rose eyes soft. "None of us ever were. Even when we thought we were."
Jrin's voice echoed from behind his throne, final and clear.
"The clock begins now. One month. Choose wisely."
Then, softer—almost like a promise:
"Become."
And with that, the chamber dimmed, the thrones falling into contemplative silence. One path had ended.
Another had opened.
~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~
As the others began to rise, one lingered a moment longer, fingers trailing over the curve of their throne as if sealing something unspoken. Another vanished in a blink of golden smoke, but not before casting Qaritas a gaze too knowing to ignore. The silence they left behind was not empty—it was a promise of observation.
"You've drawn the gaze," said a voice from behind a fading throne. "Be sure it's the right one."
Only six remained.
Ayla, Komus, Niraí, Cree, Hydeius.
And Qaritas.
"Come," Niraí said, eyes glinting like twin novas. "First lesson of being an Ascendant?" She grinned. "We don't skip breakfast."
Komus nodded, adjusting his mantle. "Especially not after nearly being interrogated into oblivion."
Cree smiled gently, rising with Hydeius still at their side. "You've stepped into a world that isn't made of answers, Qaritas. But it is full of wonder. And meals."
Hydeius chuckled low in his chest. "Food before trials. That is the oldest law."
Qaritas, still unsure, looked to Ayla.
She extended her hand—not to guide him, but to walk beside him.
"It's time," she said. "To start learning what it means to be one of us."
He took her hand.
And together, they walked through the silver arch at the rear of the Hall, where a new chamber awaited—warmed by light, laden with food, and humming with the quiet music of a world that, for the first time, might begin to feel like his.
One by one, the ancient presences began to fade. Some vanished in bursts of white flame. Others folded silently into the seams of space. The thrones dimmed—not abandoned, but waiting.
Without ceremony, the chamber emptied. Stars dimmed. The thrones slept.
This was no mere table—it was the Dining Hall of the Ascendants, where meals were rituals, and memory was served with silence.
"We only eat here when truth is on the table," Cree said, settling into her seat.
At the center, a long obsidian table shimmered into being—braided with constellations and set with foods Qaritas didn't recognize. Fruit that hummed with resonance. Bread braided from solar silk. Dishes made not for sustenance, but for memory.
Ayla pulled him gently toward the table.
"Breakfast," she said with a smile. "You're going to need it."
Hydeius chuckled, low and worn. "Even gods must eat, shadow-born. Or at least pretend to."
Niraí took a seat with a flourish. "And while we eat—we'll talk. You've got a universe to catch up on."
Qaritas hesitated, then sat.
They had chosen him. Swiftly. Too swiftly? He did not yet know what that meant.
But for now, he would listen. And learn.
Komus sat beside Qaritas, resting a single hand on the polished edge of the table. He didn't look over as he spoke.
"When I was young," he murmured, "I almost tore a star in half to prove I deserved my place here."
His voice was softer than before. More human.
"Don't make the same mistake I almost did. You don't need to shatter anything to be real."
And for the first time since his awakening, Qaritas sat not in shadow—
but at a table shaped by light, surrounded by those who had chosen him.
In the far corner, a single candle burned with black flame.
Cree glanced toward the black flame but did not speak. Then, softly:"Not everything that dies stays buried. Some truths claw their way back with new names."
It flickered without heat, without scent. It cast no shadow—only memory.
Ayla glanced at the flame, her expression unreadable.
She tightened her grip on Qaritas's hand by a fraction—then smiled again, as if nothing had changed.
For half a breath, he thought someone stood near it—a shadow within a shadow. But when he looked again, there was only the flame... and the ache it left behind.
The whisper stirred again, not in words this time, but in pressure. Presence. A promise still waiting to be answered.
Qaritas looked at the faces around him—not yet gods, but fragments of the universe trying to become whole. The shadow inside him curled close—not in fear, but in waiting. Waiting to see if it would be carried forward... or left behind.
And for the first time, he wondered:
If he did become one of them—would anything of the shadow remain, to remember what he had once been?