The Covenant Chamber, where the Nine Seats of Firmatha Sangaur meet, was lit in shifting hues of starlight, shadows dragging long across the obsidian platform beneath them. At the center of the endless hall sat the Seats of Firmatha Sangaur. Their thrones floated above the large obsidian platform. Surrounding the platform were some of their most trusted advisors, but they would only speak when their counsel was requested.

Lord Cefketa sat forward on his throne. It was ornately crafted from obsidian. An image of a black dragon with black feathered wings adorned its top. The dragon was carved from bits of Cefketa's first shedding, much to the 5th Seat Ferradon, the Dwarven leader's chagrin. It was but a saving grace that there was enough of Lord Cefketa's shedding left for him to make his masterpiece.

Before them, suspended in a shimmer of Vaylora, were several screens that replayed the broadcast from the United Nations and the fallout that resulted from it around the world. They had eyes and ears everywhere.

In Washington, generals barked over one another in the Pentagon, red-faced, sweating, their voices cracking as they debated whether nuclear weapons even meant anything against beings who could shatter reality with a gesture.

In Rome, the Pope's trembling words carried into cathedrals and streets: "Angels and demons walk among us. And they are neither." Half of Europe fell to its knees; the other half screamed in protest, calling it sacrilege.

In Nairobi, scientists picked apart Mythara's projection frame by frame. "D-Deepfakes," one whispered desperately, though he could not explain the impossible resonance patterns, the nanite energy signatures. Denial fractured in sterile labs.

In Beijing, the screens went black—censors severing feeds, stamping red across servers. Yet the people already had it, fragments scattered through private networks, myth bleeding into every phone screen.

Tokyo's streets swelled into chaos, chants roaring into the night. Kami. Oni. Savior. Monster. Mythara's name was painted on walls, worshiped in neon, and cursed in spray paint.

Markets twisted in violent spasms. Defense stocks soared. Airlines and insurers collapsed. Black markets flooded with fake "Persequion serums"—vials of colored liquid that promised godhood.

"They've really done it. The curtain falls, and humanity is back to trembling in the dark," Cefketa spoke.

A guttural laugh shook the Titan-Orc Warchief's bone throne. He slapped his knee in excitement and anticipation.

"Good! At last, they know fear again. Let them burn their cities and choke on it. Why waste our time with speeches? We should strike now, while their faith in governments crumbles!"

The 1st Seat, the Vampire leader, his pale skin and pale gold eyes illuminated by the starlight, exhaled an annoyed sigh as he stared at the 2nd Seat.

"Strike too soon and they'll cling to the Persequions harder. Fear makes sheep follow their shepherd. Better we let them fracture. Let their faith crumble into hysteria, and let them beg us for salvation."

Veydris, the 6th Seat and matriarch of the Kitsune, entered the discussion with a voice like a gentle, soothing breeze.

"No. Not salvation—purpose. Humanity thrives only in structured delusions. Recognition, nations, treaties—it is noise. We will offer them purpose through the illusion of choice and gain their obedience."

The 3rd Seat, Nethyros, the matriarch of the Vaelthora (Leviathans, mermaids) race, spoke next. She had striking light blue skin, with scales lining her eyes and parts of her mostly exposed body; those scales shimmered like sapphire.

Her enchanting voice filled the room. "Why waste strength? Poison runs deeper than fire or chains. Their markets collapse, their trust rots. Let it spread. A season of silence, and they'll destroy themselves."

The werewolf 7th Seat, Lunara, lazily leaned back on his throne. He casually waved his hand as he gave his opinion.

"Bind them through their own illusions, let them kill themselves off, crush them to dust. Does any of it matter? What matters is leverage. And now they have revealed our name to the world. Firmatha Sangaur will soon be spoken in every tongue. We can control them simply through gatekeeping our tech."

"Hmm, as usual, the dog is the one with the most sense," the 5th Seat, Ferradorn, chimed in, nodding his head in approval. These barbaric humans would grovel at their feet for even the smallest scrap of tech they could produce.

"Why kill off potentially cheap laborers?" Ferradorn added.

"Trade. Fear. Chains. War. Evolution. All paths lead to the same truth: mankind, as it is known, is nearing its end. Let us just help them see that," Sylvaira, the 4th Seat, spoke.

Vaerros, the Titan-Orc Warchief, slammed his fist against his throne. He reached for his battle axe and pointed it at the other Seats.

"You all prattle like cowards. I will not sit here while the hatchling misrepresents our glory. I say we descend upon their chamber, split their bones, and leave their corpses as our first decree."

The 8th Seat, Varythiel, the skinwalker alpha, had been silent, as usual, but he finally spoke.

"Perhaps we need not lift a hand. Already they riot. Already, they whisper betrayal. Human individuality will be their undoing, as it always has been. Perhaps the Persequions are the spark that will see the world consume itself. We can just pick up the pieces that remain."

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For a moment, the chamber fell into silence—nine voices, nine wills, colliding like storms. Then all eyes turned to Cefketa. Everything that was happening was more or less by his own design. If he expected this, then he must have already considered their next steps.

"You all make valid arguments," he said softly. "But you all aren't seeing the full picture, are you? Have you all forgotten what brought you to this planet? Do you all still not see my vision for this world's future?" His words were simple, but struck the older Seats like a sack of bricks.

"They have called for recognition. And so shall we. We will show ourselves as gods and pay our proper respects to Heka. Let the mortals look upon the Persequions as gods, as our equals. And then when the time presents itself… rip at the flesh of their godhood."

The chamber stirred. Cefketa's smile sharpened.

The echoes of the Seats' debate still reverberated in the Chamber when the air shimmered. Threads of Vaylora unfurled in the space between thrones, and a vision of Mythara and the others began to form before them.

The 4th Seat, Sylvaira, spoke. "Lord Mythara, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

The projection stabilized. Mythara's image stood tall at its heart, his rose-gold eyes cold, his presence steady even before nine beings who could shatter mountains with thought alone. Amaterasu stood beside Mythara, her gaze unwavering. Shango's stance was wide, grounded, as though daring the Seats to test him. Watabe's silence carried its own defiance, his jaw set with steel. They had not come to bow. They had come to speak as equals.

"Mythara," the 1st Seat, Zyvaroth, the Vampire leader, said, "Bold move to reveal the existence of 'Gods'."

"Gods?" Mythara's smirk was faint, cutting. "Well, they'll believe what they want to. It's just a matter of which God to follow. Isn't that right?" Mythara smirked as he turned to face Cefketa, who returned a smile laced with venom.

Mythara continued, his voice steady as steel.

"The world now knows the truth. They know of us, of Firmatha Sangaur. But they know only bits and pieces. Names without faces. If you mean to speak for yourselves, if you mean to be recognized, then come. The UN has already begun drafting conditions to try to leash us. They will try the same with you. Better you hear it directly."

Shango's image stepped forward, his voice calm but biting.

"We're not asking for your help. We're giving you a choice. You can come to the table and make your own demands—or you can let us decide for you."

Watabe's jaw tightened as he added, "One way or another, the world will remember Firmatha Sangaur. But if you leave the story to us, it won't be flattering."

The chamber stirred—laughter coming from several thrones.

"You threaten us?" Vaerros, the Titan-Orc Warchief, spoke, his voice scraping like blades.

"No," Amaterasu said evenly. "We offer you the same thing we offer the UN. Truth. Recognition. Survival. What you do with it is your choice."

For a long moment, the projection flickered in silence. Then Cefketa rose from his throne, his loose robes concealing his still-healing wound on his chest. The smell of the Blood Pool was still on him.

"So," he said, voice almost fond, "my Tiny Tots grew fangs?"

He stepped closer to the projection, his eyes narrowing, voice low enough to chill the chamber.

"We will come. We will show the world what true sovereignty looks like. And don't you worry. When they see us beside you, they will know the difference between man and monster."

Two weeks had passed, and the United Nations chamber was still fraying at the seams.

Delegates barked through translators, some demanding sanctions, others pleading for recognition, all of them scrambling to grasp a world that had slipped from their control. Outside, protests surged like tidal waves across capitals, fear and fanaticism bleeding into the streets.

Mythara the Trinity, and the others that had visited the UN as representatives of Heka were here again. Their positions were still unclear, but their presence was welcomed by most, if only to combat what was coming.

The shouting and whispering continued to fill the chamber. And then—everything stilled.

The lights flickered. A hum filled the air, deeper than thunder. Every phone, every broadcast feed across the globe glitched in unison. Screens bled into static, then into a single image: a wave of black energy darker than the void oozed into the chamber, from above.

Delegates froze, some clutching their earpieces, others whispering prayers they had not spoken in decades. The chamber roof split with light. A rip in reality was created as space opened like a gate to welcome nine figures.

The Seats of Firmatha Sangaur floated through the gate into the hall. Their thrones in the Chamber of the Covenant were viewable by all present. All the humans there could feel their presence, but there were four that gave even the Trinity pause. The 1st Seat Zyvaroth, the Vampire leader, exuded deadly grace and refinement. He adjusted his cufflinks on his black fine-pressed tailor suit. Even in the midst of intense fear, some found themselves allured.

The 2nd Seat Vaerros let out a dark chuckle that made everyone in the room reel at just the sight of him. He was a mountain of muscle, easily over 3 meters. He had tanned red-tinged skin, marred with battle scars, with large, bestial tusks. He was adorned in leather armor, a cartoonishly large battle axe forever present.

The 3rd Seat Nethyros, the matriarch of the Vaelthora, appeared before them. The bearing of the sea and the pressure of the ocean bore down on all those present. Her eyes scanned the room with delicate grace, but every head turned away, daring not to look her in the eyes.

And at their head floated Lord Cefketa. He wore a black Veridahn uniform. His top buttons were undone, so all could see his black scales running up his neck. Purple dragonic eyes roamed the room as he stared at the humans there, seeing them not as equals, but as potential prey. They all could feel the chill of death gripping their necks.

Cameras exploded in flashes. Translators fell silent, some tearing off their headsets. A few delegates screamed. Others sat frozen, paralyzed by awe, some nearly overcome by lust, as the 6th Seat Veydris, the Kitsune leader, used all her self-control not to enthrall them completely.

Cefketa raised his hand. The clamor died as though the air itself had been strangled. As if it were natural to bend to his whims.

"Mankind," his voice rolled, layered with tones that no human throat could produce, broadcast to every living room, every device. "You have heard the children. Now… you will hear from us."

His tone was dismissive. He looked over at the seats that were prepared for them and then scoffed. He made a motion with his finger, and the thrones of the Seats raced from a split in reality and found their owners. Lord Cefketa took his seat. Behind him, the other Seats arranged themselves in a semicircle, their mere presence dwarfing the grandeur of the chamber. The nine of them remained in the air, looking down on the humans below.

Mythara's gaze never wavered. He alone stood unmoved, though even his breath drew sharper. Amaterasu's fists clenched. Shango's stance widened, ready for whatever storm would follow. The Conductor found himself on edge as he took several deep breaths to focus and remain logical.

The President of the Assembly could barely keep his hand from shaking as he raised his gavel. The chamber was on the knife's edge between collapse and silence.

And as Cefketa's smile widened, he motioned for them to begin. The gavel struck wood.

This did not mark order, but the end of the old world.

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