Page 267 of The Ascended
The Forging
The lightof Sundralis crashed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I stumbled through the portal, cursing under my breath. Months in Draknavor's dim light hadn't prepared me for this assault. This wasn't natural sunlight—this was a godsdamned weapon, an aggressive display of divine ego made visible.
"It's..." Marx squinted beside me, her face twisted in discomfort.
"Obnoxious," I muttered. For a domain named after the sun, there was something deeply dishonest about this light. Like it was trying to bully you into submission. I found myself aching for Draknavor's honest darkness, for the shadows that never seemed afraid to be what they were.
"Olinthar has always valued appearances over substance," Xül murmured, voice low. He scanned the horizon with barely concealed contempt.
I followed his gaze. The citadel of Sundralis rose before us, all gleaming white marble and gold. My eyes watered anew. Every tower, every arch, every garden path flaunted a sterile flawlessness.
But there was nothing alive about it. Nothing free.
"This way." Aelix gestured toward the central spire.
My gut twisted. This was it. The culmination of everything that had happened since that terrible day in Saltcrest.
We walked along paths of winding pavement. Divine beings stopped to stare as we passed, their whispers trailing behind us. I kept my chin high, my spine straight. Didn't let their presence—or the hot brands of their gazes on my back—affect me.
"This isn't like the other Trials," Xül said softly, his shoulder brushing mine. "No viewing portals. Everyone who's anyone will be present in Sundralis today."
I let out a tight breath. "Naturally."
The citadel's interior was even more oppressive—soaring ceilings, walls of pristine white that made my eyes burn. Olinthar's face loomed from every fresco, every mosaic, every hanging. A perfect, benevolent mask.
Doors opened at our approach, swinging wide on silent hinges. The Ascension Chamber loomed before us. I halted at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed.
The chamber was vast and circular, topped by a crystal dome that bent and refracted the already painful light. White marble pedestals stood at its center—four lonely islands in a sea of polished floor.
"That's where we'll stand?" Marx murmured beside me. "Like living statues?"
"It would seem so," I said, unable to keep the bite from my voice. The pedestals looked like altars. Like sacrificial stones. In a way, I supposed they were.
Around the chamber's perimeter, twelve ornate thrones formed a semicircle. The Aesymar were taking their places—beings of such power that the air around them warped and shimmered. My eyes found Vorinar first, the God of Fate, slouched on his throne, eyes glassy as he stared at nothing in particular. So he'd shown up to this, but not to the meeting last night. Beside him sat Davina. Next was Morthus. For abrief second, his dark eyes met mine, and he managed a subtle nod.
I counted each one, my unease growing with every face, until I reached the central throne—larger than the others, crafted of gold and crystal. It sat empty.
Divine beings packed the chamber, their combined gazes raining down on the lower levels. Their voices rose and fell in excited waves, a ravenous ocean of sound.
"Vultures," Marx muttered.
"They've come to witness history," Aelix corrected mildly.
"Same difference." My eyes swept over the masses of immortals, searching for one face that actually mattered. And then—there. A flash of slicked midnight hair.
Thatcher.
He stood across the chamber in Chavore's colors, but there was no mistaking the fierce determination in his eyes as our gazes locked. For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
I was beginning to miss that carefree, easy smile he used to wear.
But we'd made it. Against impossible odds, we were both here. Both alive. We'd both changed in different ways since our time in Voldaris. I wasn't sure yet if it was for the better.
I felt a hand slide against the small of my back.
"You can go," Xül said, his voice ghosting across my ear. "There's time."
