By Aleryn Duskwhisper, Exarch of Illario

The Convocation of the Divine was never meant for mortal concerns.

Its halls were untouched by time, woven of essence rather than matter, shaped solely by the wills of those who inhabited it. No light pierced the mist, and yet it was not dark. No sound echoed, yet silence reigned. It was a space that only gods could define—a place where reality bent to their presence, their deliberations, their unyielding truths.

And yet, into this space stepped Z’hani.

I watched from my place, among beings who had existed long before the first mortal prayed for salvation. Z’hani was raw—still clinging to the mortal nature he had once borne, still trembling under the weight of his divinity. He stood before the gods with purpose, though his stance betrayed his uncertainty.

He was not ready. Not truly.

And yet, he was here.

“I ask only to see them,” he said, his voice steady but carrying the cracks of longing. “Not to call them back, not to rewrite fate—only to know them. To understand the faces I never saw, the voices I never heard.”

His words hung in the air, unfinished. Then, with quiet resolution, he added: “Only to know who I was meant to love.”

The silence that followed was deep, as though the Convocation itself paused to consider his plea.

It was Kieron who spoke first, his tone firm and unyielding.

“They worshipped me in life,” he declared, his presence rippling outward with quiet authority. “Their loyalty was given. Their passage to my realm is already written.”

It was not a denial, but neither was it consent. It was a statement—absolute, yet still waiting for something unspoken.

And then, like a shadow weaving into a flame, Legaria moved. Her presence shifted the air, her gaze sharp, unrelenting. She carried herself as if the space bent to her alone.

“You seek knowledge,” she murmured, her voice curling into the stillness like smoke. “But answers do not heal wounds. They only deepen them.”

Z’hani’s form tensed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His silence screamed louder than any rebuttal he could have made.

“You believe knowing them will change something,” she continued, stepping closer. Her voice was both silk and dagger, each word a strike against him. “But answers do not erase pain. They only tighten its hold.”

And then her lips curved—not in amusement, but in calculation.

“What if they do not recognize you?” she whispered. “What if they cannot love what you have become?”

The words snapped something within him. I could feel it as clearly as the tension in the air. Z’hani’s divinity ignited—not in controlled radiance, but in furious, untempered power. It spilled outward, slamming against the boundaries of the Convocation, pressing against reality itself.

“I am no longer the boy you enslaved!” he snarled, his voice shaking the very fabric of the space.

His presence expanded, luminous and overwhelming, a force raw and untamed. The gods, even Legaria, shifted under its weight, their expressions unreadable.

“If you wish to challenge me now,” he continued, each word laced with bitterness, with vengeance, with fury, “then I will make you regret it.”

Legaria’s silence spoke volumes. She knew she could not challenge him—not now.

But before anyone else could speak, Aeru’s voice cut through the storm.

“That will not happen,” he said, his tone not commanding but certain.

And just like that, the tension collapsed.

Z’hani allowed his power to linger—not as a sign of loss, but of mastery. He met Legaria’s gaze, ensuring she understood what he had become. He was beyond her now—beyond her reach, her power, her schemes.

She knew it.

And she despised it.

Then, Z’hani spoke again, his voice no longer a roar but a measured, calculated tone.

“The name Legaria will fade,” he said. “Not by fire, nor by ruin, but in the slow inevitability of time, as all things bound must break. You will scrape and claw, knowing you cannot win. And one day, there will be nothing left. No shrines. No prayers. No memory.”

For a moment, she faltered. Just slightly. But we all saw it.

Then Tlaxitan’s laughter echoed, sharp and cutting.

“And here I thought you would put up a fight,” he said, his voice thick with mockery.

Legaria stiffened, but did not respond.

It was then I stepped forward, my presence quiet but deliberate.

“You do not understand,” I said, my voice carrying into the charged stillness.

Kaemir’s gaze flicked to me, amusement playing at the edges of his expression.

“And I suppose you do, Exarch of Illario?” he asked.

I met his gaze without hesitation.

“I do,” I replied simply. “Exarch I am. Mortal I still am. As Z’hani was.”

Kaemir’s amusement dimmed, though he said nothing further.

I gestured toward Z’hani.

“He could have demanded answers,” I said. “He could have torn the truth from you. Instead, he came here, seeking permission. Out of respect. Which, if we are being honest, is more than he has been afforded. Past and present.”

The silence rippled—shifting, uncomfortable.

Antaz exhaled softly, his voice tinged with dry humor. “Illario chose well with this one,” he mused.

Sujaz chuckled. “We should consider getting one of those,” they said.

“Twins, of course,” they added in unison, grinning.

Chaztan sighed audibly, rubbing his temple.

I resisted the urge to smile.

Illario’s gaze settled on me for just a moment—a flicker of approval, quiet and unspoken.

Luzion, god of the dead, finally spoke, his voice resonant, eternal.

“The dead belong to their gods,” he declared. “But you belong to them as well.”

He turned to Z’hani, his judgment final.

“You may stand before them,” he said. “But you will not call them back. You will not interfere with what has already been shaped.”

Z’hani exhaled slowly, his form trembling for just a moment before he nodded.

It was done.

And as he turned to leave, I watched him closely—not as a god watching another, but as a mortal who understood the weight he carried.

And the gods watched him go.