Adam stood from the throne.
His steps were slow. Measured. The sky above him, once hollow, now stirred with light. Not the sharp blaze of lightning or divine flame—but the kind of light that followed creation itself. Soft. Absolute.
Everyone watched him. But no one spoke.
He looked down at his hand, the glow of command still humming beneath his skin, then turned to the others—his people. Not subordinates. Not worshippers. But brothers. Sisters. Survivors.
"…I'm not doing this alone."
Joshua blinked. "What?"
Adam nodded to the massive platform surrounding the throne. Eight curved seats circled it like a sun wheel—cracked and empty since the fall. Each carved for a god. Each waiting.
"You've all walked through fire to get here. You bled beside me. Burned the heavens beside me," he said. "So you're going to stand beside me, too."
He pointed.
"Take your seats."
The air trembled.
