Mother Rosen summoned a throne with a mere flick of her fingers, and the Chambers obeyed. Modest in size, yet beautifully and intricately adorned, it rose from the floor as though it had always slumbered there—waiting for her return.
Once seated, she swept her gaze across her Emblems, her divine presence wrapping around them like a velvet chain.
"Now that you're all comfortable," she began, her tone deceptively warm, "let's talk about why I summoned you."
Seraphyx looked up, sorrow flickering in his silver-blue eyes.
"Your possession of my body was abruptly severed when the Abyss invaded Arian..." he began.
But Mother Rosen raised her hand, halting him with nothing more than a glance.
"I'm the one speaking now," she said, her voice calm but edged like a blade. "I may love you all, but I won't let such rudeness go unanswered."
A faint smile tugged at her lips—light, teasing, but beneath it was divine authority.
"As punishment, Seraphyx will be accompanying me for an extra day."
Seraphyx exhaled with the resigned sigh of someone who knew better than to argue. The others dared not even blink.
"I left your body because the Veil was broken," Mother Rosen continued, her tone shifting to something heavier. "If the Heavenly Principles were to learn that I still live... Arian would not survive the consequences."
Her eyes darkened, filled with centuries of burden.
"For now, we must not share anything with a neutral enemy of all Sovereigns. Not the Abyss. Not even... the others."
Kaelya, Ignarion, Morven, and Seraphyx nodded in perfect unison—no questions, no hesitation.
"Ignarion," she said firmly, "tell Yandelf to be prepared. Conflict is inevitable, and her strength will be needed sooner than we'd like."
Ignarion gave a respectful nod. "Understood, Mother."
"Kaelya," Rosen said, her voice suddenly cold and commanding, "revive the dead from the last Abyss incursion."
Kaelya blinked. "All of them, Mother?"
"It's not a suggestion, Kaelya. It's an order."
Her breath caught for a moment, but she bowed her head. "Yes, Mother."
"Morven," Rosen said, her tone softening again—just enough to reveal the warmth beneath the frost, "make sure the Veil never breaks again. Not even a tremor."
"I won't let it happen, Mother," Morven promised.
Finally, her gaze landed on Seraphyx, and it lingered.
"Your task will be the hardest of all," she said with a weary sigh. "Prepare the people of Arian for what's coming. Tell them everything. The whole truth. There's no hiding it anymore. We've run out of time... and illusions."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Kaelya stepped forward, worry etched across her face.
"Mother... do you know who our first enemy will be?"
Mother Rosen's expression flickered—grief, doubt, and then iron.
"I don't," she said honestly. "But it's only a matter of time before the other Sovereigns make their move. We need eyes beyond our borders."
She leaned back, barely whispering the name like it hurt to say it.
"…Orion…"
Then, she looked to Ignarion once more.
"Once your task is complete," she said calmly, "go outside the city and find Orion. Tell him to befriend Barbatos, gain his trust… and wait for further orders."
Ignarion bowed low, silent but resolute.
"As you will, Mother."
The chamber held its breath.
As the Emblems stepped away from the throne, the grand illusion began to quiver, the air thick with the soundless weight of ancient power withdrawing.
The walls themselves seemed to fold inward like pages closing on a forgotten tome. Arcane light drained slowly from the sigils carved into the obsidian floor, their runes dissolving like frost in the sun.
Kaelya was the first to move, casting one last look at Mother Rosen—her gaze a mixture of love, fear, and mourning. Her steps echoed softly in the hollow space as she turned away.
Ignarion's armor chimed faintly, a war-song in steel, as he bowed and retreated into the shadowed halls. His eyes flicked toward Seraphyx, who lingered longer than the rest.
Seraphyx's golden eyes reflected the waning light. His ancient wings folded slowly, the weight of centuries etched into his frame. He bowed deeply, voice a whisper laced with sorrow.
"Until tomorrow, Mother."
Then the illusion collapsed.
The throne vanished as the chamber's walls shimmered and pulled back like the curtain of night unveiling a storm.
In the center of it all, Mother Rosen began her transformation.
Her human form shattered like fragile ice.
Her limbs lengthened and thickened, bones cracking softly beneath scales that shimmered with a glacial palette—ashen white, deep sapphire, spectral violet hues pulsing faintly beneath her skin like a dying star's last heartbeat.
Her head—the size of a palace—lifted with silent majesty. Jagged horns crowned her like frozen constellations, twisting upward and outward, radiating an eerie cosmic light.
Her eyes burned with ancient knowledge, deep and terrifying, still as the void between galaxies. They pierced the darkness with a terrifying stillness that could freeze the soul.
Her wings unfurled—vast, spanning miles—each membrane shimmering like shards of the northern lights, translucent and shimmering with spectral frost.
The chamber around her shrank into insignificance beneath her colossal form. The very air seemed to crackle under the weight of her presence.
She was no longer a mere woman.
She was the Sovereign of Frost—the forgotten mother of ice and silence, a godlike titan whose breath could freeze time itself.
Her voice, when it came, was a cold wind that shook the mountains.
"Be strong, my children."
And with a final, ground-shaking beat of her wings, she rose, folding her massive form into the shadows beyond the chamber's reach.
The illusion was gone.
------------------------------------------------
Deep beneath the marble roots of the kingdom, hidden beyond crystal caverns and silken mist, lay the Womb of Arian.
A sacred place untouched by death—an oasis where the waters shimmered with ancient life, and the breath of the land itself whispered through the air like lullabies.
Here, Kaelya floated alone.
Her back rested gently against the surface of the lake, half-submerged, the water glowing faintly with soft emerald and aquamarine hues. Her long, ink-black hair spread around her like a web of sorrow, slowly intertwining with the vines and leaves of her nature-woven garments.
The way they coiled and flowed together made her appear like a mourning goddess sculpted from grief and beauty. Her pale face glowed faintly in the light, lips trembling as her chest rose and fell in quiet sobs.
Then, the first tear slipped from her eye and kissed the surface.
The lake shimmered. The pulse of the land shifted.
And the skies over Arian began to weep.
It began as a light drizzle.
The people of Arian—many still wandering amidst ruins, their hearts heavy with the weight of recent loss—looked skyward as the gentle rain fell upon them.
A child raised her hands, catching the droplets.
"They're warm," she whispered, eyes wide. "Like a hug..."
Then it happened.
From the burial fields, from charred courtyards and shattered homes—the earth stirred.
Soft groans rose from the soil.
A hand burst from the ground, followed by another.
One by one, the dead clawed their way back to life—not as undead husks, but whole, gasping, confused… and alive. Mud-covered and blinking beneath the rain, their hearts beat once more.
An old man fell to his knees, clutching his wife who had risen from the dirt.
"I buried you with my own hands—Seraphyx… it was Seraphyx…"
Sobs echoed through the streets.
A young boy stared in awe as his sister climbed out of a shallow grave, coughing and confused.
"It's raining life…" someone whispered.
"He's crying… the Mother is crying for us."
The bells of the city began to ring—not in alarm, but in awe.
Back in the Womb
Kaelya remained still in the lake, tears streaming freely now.
She whispered to the water, voice barely audible:
"I… I didn't mean to love them so much… But being able to revive them feels good, Only if mother had given me permission earlier."
Above her, the cavern ceiling shimmered like the inside of a pearl. A single vine reached down from the moss-draped roots, gently touching her cheek—almost as if the land itself was weeping with her.