The man seated upon the throne watched them as one might watch a game whose outcome had already been decided.

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced, his posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate rather than careless. His blond hair fell unevenly across his brow, catching the pale daylight that filtered through the ruined ceiling. His smile was crooked, unbalanced, as if it existed independently from the rest of his face.

  “My name,” he said, unhurried, “is Serenai.”

  The syllables echoed against scorched stone. Not because he spoke loudly, but because the chamber itself seemed eager to repeat them, to carry them outward and let them linger.

  Serenai straightened.

  “I am the Light made will,” he continued, voice calm and self-satisfied. “I am judgment without patience. I am mercy when I choose to be.” His eyes moved across the group, measuring, cataloguing. “In simpler terms, I am your god.”

  No one answered.

  The silence was not coordinated. It was instinctive. Aros stood with his shoulders squared, jaw set. Digiera’s hands flexed slightly at her sides, fingers itching for blades she no longer had. Legs swallowed hard, eyes darting from the throne to the chains binding Talon. Broko stared openly, anger and confusion warring in his battered expression. Seren Dal had gone still in a way that suggested inward calculation, as if he were mapping exits that did not exist.

  Gemma felt the Light stir beneath her skin.

  Not in response.

  In recognition.

  Serenai noticed the silence and laughed softly, a sound that carried amusement without warmth.

  “Ah,” he said. “Silence. I do enjoy it when it’s voluntary.”

  He rose from the throne in a single, fluid motion. The steps down were uneven, improvised from fused stone and melted metal, yet he descended them without looking, as if the ground itself adjusted to him.

  “Well then,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back, pacing slowly before them, “we’ll do this properly.”

  He stopped a few paces away.

  “Tell me who you are.”

  No one moved.

  Serenai tilted his head, studying their faces like a painter deciding where to place the first stroke.

  “No?” he asked lightly.

  The silence remained.

  His smile widened.

  “Very well.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  Broko was lifted from the ground.

  Not violently. Not abruptly. He rose as if the air itself had decided to cradle him, boots dangling uselessly, arms flailing instinctively as panic seized him.

  “Hey—!” Broko shouted. “Put me down!”

  A faint shimmer surrounded him now, barely visible, but unmistakable. The Light. Not fire. Not force. Pressure. Control.

  Gemma’s breath caught hard in her chest.

  It was the same.

  Not similar.

  The same.

  Serenai watched Broko float with open delight, eyes bright, almost childlike in their excitement.

  “You see,” he said pleasantly, “obedience can be taught.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Gemma stepped forward before she could stop herself.

  “Stop,” she said.

  Serenai turned toward her.

  For the first time since they entered the chamber, his expression shifted.

  Not anger.

  Interest.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “You felt that.”

  Broko struggled helplessly, feet kicking the empty air.

  “He has the Light,” Gemma said, voice tight but steady. “The same as me.”

  Serenai laughed outright now, a sharp, delighted sound that echoed against the stone.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Did you think I was pretending?”

  He lowered Broko gently back to the ground, as if the moment had already served its purpose. Broko stumbled as his boots touched stone, gasping, eyes wide, but still alive.

  Gemma’s pulse thundered in her ears.

  “Very well,” she said quickly, turning to the others. “Answer him. All of you. Tell him the truth.”

  Aros glanced at her, surprised, searching her face for hesitation. Finding none, he stepped forward.

  “I am Aros,” he said clearly. “And we are members of the Knights of Light.”

  The effect was immediate.

  Serenai’s face lit up as if he had been waiting for that exact phrase.

  “The Knights,” he repeated softly, savoring the words. Then he laughed again, this time with something sharper beneath the amusement.

  He turned and extended a finger toward the stone seat beside his throne.

  “Then that makes you all part of the same family,” he said cheerfully. “Because he told me everything.”

  Gemma’s gaze snapped to Talon.

  Talon sat rigid against the chains binding him to the stone, his head slightly bowed, blond hair matted with blood and grime. His face was bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut, but he was unmistakably conscious. His jaw was clenched, not in fear, but in restraint.

  Serenai continued pacing.

  “Your little order,” he went on conversationally. “Your ideals. Your rituals. Your fantasies of balance and restraint.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You failed. Beautifully.”

  He stopped directly in front of them.

  “You scattered yourselves like frightened animals,” Serenai said, smiling. “And when you ran, you left him.”

  He rested a casual hand on Talon’s shoulder.

  Talon did not react.

  “The others who survived?” Serenai continued. “They’re here. Below. Waiting.” His eyes glittered. “Just like you will be.”

  Digiera hissed under her breath, a sound of pure hatred.

  Serenai turned sharply toward her, amused. “Oh, don’t look so offended. He cooperated.” He tilted his head. “Eventually.”

  Talon’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

  “But before we continue,” Serenai said, stepping back toward the throne, “there is something I require.”

  He sat.

  Crossed one leg over the other.

  “Kneel.”

  No one moved.

  Serenai waited. His smile did not fade.

  “Beg,” he said lightly. “Acknowledge me. Ask for clemency. Call me what I am.”

  The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

  Gemma stepped forward again.

  “Do you really believe you’re a god?” she asked.

  Serenai blinked.

  Then smiled slowly, indulgently, as one might smile at a child asking a naive question.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I do.”

  Gemma shook her head.

  “You’re not,” she said.

  The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop.

  “You’re just another bearer of the Light,” Gemma continued, voice steady despite the pressure building around her. “Nothing more.”

  Serenai’s smile faltered.

  “You’re strong,” she went on. “Stronger than most. But you didn’t create the Light. You didn’t choose it. You carry it. Just like me.”

  Something ugly flashed across Serenai’s face.

  “That,” he said sharply, “is blasphemy.”

  “No,” Gemma replied. “It’s truth.”

  The silence that followed was no longer curious.

  It was dangerous.

  Serenai rose slowly, deliberately. His fingers curled at his sides, the Light pulsing faintly around him now, no longer concealed.

  “Take them,” he said coldly.

  The archers moved instantly.

  Hands seized arms. Ropes tightened. They were pushed forward, dragged through corridors deeper into the ruin. The walls bore scars of old rituals—circles burned into stone, chains fused by intense heat, symbols of devotion twisted into obsession.

  Seren Dal whispered as they passed, “These were sanctuaries once.”

  Gemma believed him.

  Now they were something else.

  They were thrown into a broad holding chamber beneath the structure. Iron bars. Damp stone. The smell of old blood layered with newer fear.

  The gate slammed shut.

  Silence fell.

  Aros turned to Gemma immediately.

  “Why did you provoke him?” he asked quietly.

  Gemma met his gaze without flinching.

  “Because he isn’t a god,” she said.

  “How do you know?” Aros pressed.

  Gemma inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her.

  “Because Anxio told me,” she said.

  The others turned toward her.

  “And because,” she continued, voice low but unshakable, “it’s time you all know the truth.”