And then the mad one—the one with fever-bright eyes—laughed, high and cracked, shouting,“She is your Aelyth! Our Aelyth have returned! Don’t you see it?Don’t you taste it?" His joy was wild and terrible, like someone watching the world burn and calling it art.
Shit. I should never have agreed to this.
They weren’t men. Not really. They were the remnants of a dying cosmos, ancient gods who had forgotten what it meant to be mortal. And here I was, barely clothed in a sheet—Zaph hadn't even given me time to put on proper clothing before I was lurched once again through space—clutching him like he was the only shield I had left. Which, in all honesty, he was.
Before anyone else could explode, another figure stepped forward. His aura was quieter than the others, not a roaring inferno or a wild storm, but something steadier, like the hush of a library where every word mattered. His presence was still immense—godlike, yes—but it carried weight instead of fire.
“I am Selkaris,” he said in a calm voice that carried easily in the vast hall. “Arbiter of Memory. It seems you have been thrown into our midst without preparation. My apologies for that, and please allow me to remedyit.”
One by one, he gestured to the others, introducing them in turn. Thyros—the fiery one who’d crossed swords with Zaph. Dravok—the shadow-lurker with a smirk sharp enough to slice. Vaelion—the rock-solid voice of reason, aura bright with a soldier’s discipline. Nythor—the mad-eyed one who was still chuckling to himself like he’d swallowed a prophecy. Ozyrael—the smooth diplomat whose smile was all silk, but whose gaze cut sharper than politics back home.
And finally, Zapharos. His title rang heavier than the others: Praetor of War. He had told me this before, but hearing his title now from this man made it take on a new light. Like it was a crown and curse all at once. I tried to lock their names to their faces, just like I used to at faculty meetings or endless museum board reviews, when remembering who hated what and who meant surviving the day. God help me, I was good at this. Names, faces, roles—filed away—survival 101.
Selkaris’ eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “Come. Sit. It is easier to face us from a chair than from trembling knees.”
I hadn’t even realized my kneesweretrembling until he said it. With a breath that I hoped sounded braver than I felt, I stepped toward the seat he indicated—a sleek thing carved of stone that appeared more like a throne than a chair.
Gratefully, I sat, pulling the folds of my sheet tightly around me.
Zaph didn’t sit. Of course he didn’t. A mirror oppositeme showed him standing right behind me, one hand on the back of the chair, the other hovering by his hip, where I assumed he kept his invisible sword. His aura flared black and red like a warning banner. His stare tracked every movement the others made, ready to cut one of them down if they so much as leaned wrong in my direction. Yet, I could feel it in the way he stilled behind me that he wanted to see what they would do, what they would have to say.
Selkaris moved with a kind of solemn grace, taking his place at the obsidian table. At his gesture, the others followed, each choosing a seat like kings lowering themselves onto thrones. The air thickened instantly. All staring at me like I was a dessert thrown at starving men—burning, cutting, calculating. Hungry in their own ways.
I froze, my fingers curling into the arms of the chair. Every instinct screamed at me to get up, to retreat behind Zaph’s broad frame and let him take the heat. He was right there, solid and immovable, a shield of crimson and black looming just at my back. But Selkaris’ gaze held mine. It was steady and not unkind, grounding me somewhat.
“You are brave to sit among us,” he said quietly. “Few mortals could bear the weight of this chamber. Even fewer would dare to look us in the eye.”
Brave. If only he knew how much of me wanted to bolt.
“Do not mistake us,” Selkaris went on, his voice carrying to the others as much as to me. “We are predators,yes—bound to our roles, to the Abyss and to Auris Prime. But you are not prey.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him. Not with Thyros’ fire still simmering, not with Dravok’s shadows coiled like knives, not with Nythor whisperingAelyth, Aelythunder his breath like he’d just spotted the apocalypse in my lap.
Still, I forced myself to lift my chin. I wasn’t prey. Not with Zaph’s hand braced behind me, and not with every ounce of stubbornness I had left. Selkaris folded his hands on the table; his aura was dim and steady compared to the flare of the others.
"What is your name, dear?"
"Ella," I omitted my last name; it just didn't seem important in the grand scheme of things.
“Tell us, Ella,” he said, speaking my name like it was already etched into his vault of memories. “From where did you come? What life was yours before you crossed paths with Zapharos?”
My mouth opened, habit, instinct, the part of me that answered questions in boardrooms and on excavation sites. “I was?—”
“She was taken by the Cryons,” Zaph cut in, his voice a blade that snapped the air in two. “Dragged from her world and left as a sacrifice on Rotodex with others.”
I glanced up at him, caught between gratitude and irritation. I wasn’t helpless. I could answer for myself. But his presence loomed like a shield, daring me to contradict him.
Selkaris nodded slowly,filing it away. “And yet, she survived.” His dark eyes flicked to me again. “You must have resourcefulness. Strength.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Or just a knack for bad luck,” I muttered.
A faint smile tugged at the Arbiter’s mouth. “Luck favors few. Survival favors fewer.”
Before I could think of a comeback, Dravok’s voice slid from the shadows. “What do you feel when you stand beside him?” His gaze sharpened, glinting like a predator circling. “Does the black in him frighten you? Or do you crave it?”
My breath caught; his question was too personal, too sharp.
“She feels nothing of the sort,” Zaph snapped, in the mirror, his aura flared like a storm about to break. His hand tightened on the back of my chair, making the warning clear.
