[ About 900 Years Ago ]
I was born beneath a sky that never changed.
No dawn. No dusk.
Only light— cold, eternal, unquestioned.
We were celestial by blood, but not by privilege.
My family had served for generations, sworn not to rule, not to judge, but to guard.
At the center of our world stood the Empty Throne.
A throne no one was allowed to sit upon.
A throne said to represent balance.
A throne that demanded loyalty but gave nothing in return.
My ancestors protected it with their lives.
So did I.
I believed in it once. I believed in order. I believed that power existed to prevent cruelty.
I was wrong.
The day I spoke against injustice was the day everything I loved was taken from me.
They came without warning—the Upper Celestials, robed in authority, voices calm, faces untouched by doubt. They spoke of "necessity," of "order," of "sacrifice for the greater harmony."
Then they slaughtered my parents.
Not quickly.
Not mercifully.
They were executed as examples.
I screamed. I fought. I begged. I tried to reach them—but I was weak. Too weak. My power meant nothing against ranks forged by corruption and blessed by silence.
They killed the woman I loved next.
She didn't cry. She looked at me—only once—and smiled like she was apologizing for dying. Then they tore her apart, reducing love to a lesson.
Everyone I loved.
Everyone who stood beside me.
Gone.
All because I spoke.
All because I asked why suffering was ignored while authority thrived.
I thought I had lost everything—until I saw my sister.
Alive.
Bruised. Shackled. Kneeling.
For a moment—just a moment—I felt relief. Happiness. Hope.
They noticed.
And they took her too.
Dragged her away while I was forced to kneel, my head pressed to the cold stone floor before the Empty Throne I had sworn to protect. They made me watch her disappear. They didn't kill her then.
That would have been mercy.
Instead, they bound me.
They used spells carved from law and cruelty, authority woven into punishment. I was sentenced—not to death—but to witness.
For four hundred years.
They trapped me in illusion.
Every day, I watched my parents die again.
Every day, I watched her beg again.
Every day, I saw my sister taken away, screaming my name, while I stood frozen, immortal, useless.
They called it correction.
They called it justice.
Anyone who dared raise their voice against the Upper Celestials met the same fate—or worse.
You might ask: what is worse than death?
I'll tell you.
It is watching the people you love be killed pathetically, disrespectfully, reduced to tools of fear—while you are forced to live.
All because you chose to do the right thing.
And still… they weren't finished.
When my mind finally began to fracture, when even rage felt exhausted, they killed me.
My body was destroyed.
But my will refused to die.
I heard a voice just before I died.
It didn't shout.
It didn't threaten.
It simply said, Come. Sit…
I laughed… Or maybe I tried to. My body was already failing. Blood filled my mouth. My limbs wouldn't move. I was surrounded by the remains of everything I had loved.
The throne stood before me.
The same throne no one was ever allowed to sit upon.
The Empty Throne.
The one my family had protected for generations.
It was calling me.
I didn't walk to it. I crawled.
Each movement burned. My vision blurred. I was nearly gone by the time I reached it. But I still climbed those steps, dragging what was left of myself forward.
And I sat…
The moment I did, something changed.
The throne didn't reject me.
It didn't punish me.
It chose me.
Some strange divine power flooded through what remained of my body. Raw, overwhelming, more than any god I had ever known possessed. For a single moment, I understood everything.
And then I died...