Page 145 of The Ascended
Then the world changed.
It wasn't gradual—it was instant, absolute. Sound vanished. Colors intensified to painful brilliance. The very air became too dense to breathe, pressing against my skin like an invisible weight that threatened to crush me to nothing.
For one terrible moment, I thought it.This is how we die.
Then a perfect circle of golden light tore through reality—elegant, controlled, singing with power that made my bones vibrate in response.
Through this golden portal stepped Chavore, his armor gleaming. His eyes locked immediately on Thatcher, his expression a complex mixture of triumph and concern.
And behind him?—
My heart forgot how to beat.
Olinthar.
The King of Gods stepped through the portal with a grace that belied the crushing weight of his presence. Reality seemed to bend around him, accommodating his existence as if apologizing for its imperfection.
The angry shouts died instantly. The challenges, the accusations—all forgotten now. Even Thalor and Sylphia stilled, their argument with Xül evaporating under the sun's full strength.
I had thought myself prepared for this moment. Had imagined it countless times. But nothing could have readied me for what it would feel like.
My lungs seized. No air would come, no matter how desperately I tried to draw breath. The world tilted, edges going white, then red, then white again. My knees locked to keep from buckling as every nightmare, every whispered prayer for vengeance, every tear shed in darkness crashed into this singular reality: him. Here. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill.
"Quite the performance," Olinthar said, his voice filling the entirety of Western Hydrathis. The sound resonated in my chest, an echo that threatened to replace my own heartbeat with his rhythm.
When his eyes fell on us—on me—I schooled my features into a mask of neutrality, fighting the urge to spit in his direction.
The resemblance was undeniable up close. I saw it in the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders—the same lines I'd traced in Thatcher's face a thousand times. I saw it in Chavore too, standing proudly at his father's side.
Would anyone ever look closely enough to notice? To suspect? Or was Olinthar so untouchable that the thought would never even cross anyone's mind?
Xül shifted position, moving to stand at an angle that created a perfect triangle. His earlier defiance had given way to restraint. His posture was relaxed, but I could read the tension in his shoulders, the alertness in his eyes. He was waiting, watching, preparing for whatever might unfold.
"What seems to be the issue?" Olinthar asked, directing his attention to Thalor and Sylphia with casual authority that made their earlier rage seem childish by comparison.
Sylphia straightened, her ethereal form solidifying. "The actions these two took went against the fundamental aspects of our trial," she said, voice carrying despite its softness. "They refused to speaktheir truths, then destroyed our sirens and collapsed the Archive. It would be unfair for other blessed to have to speak their deepest shame while these two refused."
I opened my mouth to argue, but Xül caught my eye, a jarring warning in his gaze. I clamped my jaw shut, the words dying in my throat.
Olinthar looked between the two gods, his expression mildly curious. "Tell me again the precise rules of your trial," he said.
Thalor stepped forward. "Contestants must find three keys, reach the Archive, and speak their darkest truth to pass."
"Interesting." Olinthar tilted his head, sunlight catching on the gold threads woven through his dark hair. "Were these exact requirements communicated to the contestants before they entered the water?"
The water around Thalor’s feet stilled. "We instructed them to find the keys and reach the Archive."
"And the truth requirement?" Olinthar pressed, his voice deceptively gentle. "Was that stated explicitly as a rule?"
A tense silence fell over the gathering. Sylphia and Thalor exchanged quick glances.
"The contestants were told that the waters of Memorica release what lies beneath their masks," Sylphia answered carefully. "That what they've kept inside may become their greatest threat."
"Poetic," Olinthar observed, a dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But not, I think, a clear statement of rules. You spoke of emotions, of reflections. Not once did you mention a requirement to confess one's darkest secrets to pass."
"It was clearly understood—" Thalor began.
"Understood is not the same as declared," Olinthar cut him off, his voice hardening. "If you did not state explicitly that confession was required, then refusing to confess cannot be grounds for execution."
