"So. He's awake." Ranah's voice barely carried, but it didn't need to. The truth of it fell heavy, like thunder before the lightning.

"We saw. We heard." Temptation lounged along the edge of the ceiling, her body reclined unnaturally among the shadows. "Why are we pretending like we didn't know this was one of the reasons his system hasn't manifested? Don't act shocked. We're not amateurs."

Her tone was flippant, but the sarcasm clung like damp smoke—meant to distract from how hard her heart was pounding.

"Because…" Morres murmured, his voice like wind through wet leaves. He hadn't moved from the couch, half-asleep still, sunken into cushions like moss. "The calculations we ran put the probability at less than one percent. That's why. It wasn't supposed to happen."

"But it did," Ranah replied. "And he awakened Star Mana. In the mortal realm. That's not random. That's destiny breaking its leash."

Temptation stretched lazily, curling her legs like a cat. "So let's run the list. Evolved forms of Star Mana?"

Ria entered with no fanfare—but her presence changed the pressure of the room. Light bent around her edges. She was quiet fury and old wounds wrapped in mortal skin.

"Celestial," she said. "Nova. Galaxy. And…"

She hesitated. Then spat the last word like acid. "Seraphic."

Ranah blinked, surprised by the venom in her tone. "You sound like you have history."

Ria didn't reply. Not right away.

"I gave up so much," she whispered. "To descend into this shell. To be here. I carved away everything divine to escape their notice. And now—now they're circling. They're trying to claim my mirror. My mirror. You think that's coincidence?"

Temptation cocked her head. "Wait—mirror? You mean… him?"

"Yes," Ria said. "That boy. He mirrors me. A cosmic reflection. And they've noticed. Of course they have. He's perfect for what they want. They know I'm still hunting. And they still try to claim him."

Morres finally opened both eyes. "Who are you? Really?"

She met his gaze, steady and unblinking. "Alexandria Del Valencia. Ex-Archon of Emeria."

The silence cracked like porcelain.

"I need you three to make a vow," she said. "What I say here doesn't leave this room. I don't have the authority I once had, but what power remains is still enough to bind."

Ranah swallowed. Temptation frowned. Morres said nothing—but nodded.

Together, they spoke.

"We vow upon the words of an Archon."

The air warped. Power sparked through the walls and stitched itself into the very stone. The vow became real. It would hold.

Ria exhaled. "Emeria lies four planes over. Or did. It was devoured. Erased. Assimilated by a Fallen Seraph. I wasn't the only survivor—but I was the highest. And so I paid the steepest price. Authority stripped. Essence fractured. The name 'Archon' taken from me like a crown pulled off a corpse."

"Let me guess," Temptation said. "You were blamed for the loss of Dominus-tier worlds. So they reset you. Mortal shell and all."

"Yes."

"That's… disgusting," Ranah murmured.

"It was effective," Ria said bitterly. "I had Nova mana. And now, if he's truly my mirror, he should have been on that path. But something went wrong. Or worse—something went right for the wrong side."

"You're afraid he's evolving toward Seraphic," Morres said. "And if that happens before ascension…"

Ria nodded. "Then the angels can claim him. While he's still mortal. Still vulnerable. Do you know how easy it is for them to write a contract on someone like him? He already has one erased—probably without realizing it. That leaves a slot. That's all they need."

Temptation's eyes narrowed. "Which contract?"

Ria looked at her. "Barbatos."

Even Morres sat up at that.

"That contract wasn't voided, it was buried," Ria said. "And don't think I haven't noticed. Someone helped him bury it. Probably thought they were protecting him. But now? If the Seraphs get to him, and that open slot gets filled—that is the one they'll overwrite."

"And Barbatos doesn't play fair," Temptation added.

"Barbatos doesn't lose," Ria corrected. "If his pact is forcefully severed, there will be backlash. Repercussions. And if the angels do it… they'll leave him holding the consequences."

Ranah sat down, slowly. "So what happens if Barbatos is voided without consent?"

Ria's voice dropped into something darker. "Then Alexander becomes the debt-holder. Not the one owed power. The one who owes it."

They were quiet again.

"Let's not pretend this isn't coordinated," Ria continued. "The Seraphic Choirs see a perfect vessel. Charisma. Pain. Buried contracts. A growing legend. He's ideal. And if they can offer him something appealing? Strength. Purpose. Sanctity—then he might sign without knowing the price."

"They're snakes in gold robes," Temptation said.

"They're worse," Ria snapped. "They're righteous. They believe it's mercy. They'll sanctify him. Strip him clean of chaos. Including Barbatos. Including choice. And worst of all?"

Her jaw clenched.

"He might say yes."

Ranah blinked. "But he's not naive."

"No," Ria said. "But he loves. And they'll use that. They always do."

Ranah hesitated. "You mean Fractal?"

"No," Ria said. "She's not the threat. She's safe. I mean Barbatos. The pact he made. The weight he chose to carry. That bargain is part of who he is. And if they sanctify him before he understands that… they'll erase it. They'll erase him."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Temptation scoffed. "So what's the move? Pray he doesn't evolve into Seraphic?"

"No," Ria said. "We make sure he doesn't want it. That he fears it. That he knows what he'll lose."

Morres leaned back, gaze distant. "And if they get to him first?"

Ria turned toward the far wall, where something ancient stirred behind her eyes.

"Then we burn their sanctuaries," she said. "And remind heaven that mortals aren't toys."

***

Titania, Queen of the Seraphs, strode into the Sanctum of Concordance with an expression carved from cold fury. Each step echoed like a divine bell tolling judgment. Her wings, vast and iridescent, shimmered with hues that no mortal eye could fully comprehend—sunlit platinum woven with strands of cosmic blue. Her gown—a living thing of celestial silk—shifted through colors too radiant to hold still.

And yet, for all her beauty and power, she was livid.

The Choir sang without her consent.

The harmony of heaven was broken.

Before her stood three of the Seven High Pontiffs—towering figures whose words shaped law across the upper realms. Industria, clad in robes of burnished silver, stood like an iron pillar, his every motion crisp and mechanical. Justicia, blindfolded and armored, bore the scales of unyielding balance, while Charitas, soft-eyed and draped in compassion, radiated warmth like spring sunlight.

Titania stopped a pace from them. Her eyes, faceted like starfire, narrowed.

"Which of you three violated the Accord of Silence?" Her voice was not loud, but it rang with a command that turned angels to stone.

"Me," said Industria, without hesitation. His words were quick and efficient, like the strike of a sword. "I saw the variables. The outcome was too likely to be ignored."

"Backed by me," said Justicia, her voice a chime of balanced tones. "The measure of his life outweighs the risks of inaction."

"And organized by me," added Charitas, placing one hand over his heart. "Because he is already hurting. And we can save him."

Titania's scowl deepened. Her wings flared once in warning, the air thickening around her with the sheer density of divinity.

"Three of my Seven," she said slowly, "moving in secret. Acting without chorus. For what? A mortal boy? Why?"

The room trembled beneath her restrained wrath.

"He is not powerful," she continued. "He is not Ascended. He is unstable, unaffiliated, mortal. We are on the cusp of war. The Veil is fracturing. The Black Choir stirs. Demons claw at reality. We have limited resources. Why spend them on this?"

Her voice was thunder now, wrapped in silk.

The Pontiffs did not waver.

"Because," Industria said simply, "that mortal—in his first shell—has awakened Star Mana."

The silence that followed was not quiet—it was a silence that suppressed the world. One that stilled the winds in distant realms. A silence that only Seraphim could command.

Titania's eyes widened. Only slightly. But it was enough to show the gravity.

"…You're certain?"

"We felt it resonate," said Justicia. "The signal was unmistakable. Crude. Unrefined. But pure."

Titania turned her back, walking slowly toward the great glass mural that adorned the Sanctum's far wall—a swirling depiction of the cosmos, layered with countless realms and pathways between them. Her voice, when she spoke again, was low.

"Celestial. Nova. Galaxy. Seraphic." She recited the known evolutions of Star Mana like a prayer—or a curse. "You think he's on the Seraphic path."

"We think he's on someone's path," said Charitas gently. "He has yet to Ascend. His contract slots are unstable. His bindings fractured. He is malleable."

"He is vulnerable," Justicia corrected.

"Which is exactly why we should not interfere," Titania replied, turning sharply. Her eyes blazed. "He is still clay. Not yet fire. Touch him too soon, and we make an enemy. Or worse—we break something divine."

Charitas stepped forward. "He is already broken, my Queen. Something buried one of his contracts. Something twisted it so deeply, he cannot see it even when it claws at his soul. Do you know what kind of power it takes to erase a pact like that?"

Justicia nodded. "If he signs with us before it reemerges, we sever that tie. Cleanly. Painlessly. He is no servant of Hell, not yet."

"Or," Titania said, "we invite war with one of the Nine."

"If we do nothing," Industria warned, "he may awaken Seraphic Mana on his own. Without our guidance. Without the Chorus. Without you."

That, more than anything, gave Titania pause.

The thought of unbound Seraphic energy—tethered to a mortal—fueled by rage, sorrow, and unanswered prayers… It was a recipe for heresy. For apocalypse.

"We offer him hope," Charitas said softly. "That's all. A hand in the dark."

Titania looked at them—at her Pontiffs—and for a moment, there was no light in her eyes. Only calculation. Cold, burning calculation.

"Hope," she repeated.

Then she turned to face the mural again, watching the threads of realms shimmer across eternity.

"Fine. Extend the hand."

The three Pontiffs seemed to release a breath in unison.

"But if he refuses," Titania said, voice sharp as a falling star, "we withdraw. Fully. No retaliation. No interference. He walks alone."

"Yes, my Queen," they chorused.

"And if Barbatos reclaims her due…"

She let the words hang like a noose in the air.

"Then he is no longer ours to save."

***

The halls of Solomon's Gate—a place that was not a place, layered between nightmare and revelation—stirred with dark breath. Here, where the sealed names of kings and monsters echoed in runes of binding and betrayal, a gathering had been called. The great seals pulsed on the obsidian walls. The air trembled, thick with sulfur, ancient ink, and the pressure of truth made contract.

For once, many of the Dukes and Princes, Lords and Seraph-fallen, had arrived in one accord.

A ring of thrones surrounded the central sigil-stone, carved from the rib of the first false prophet. Each seat pulsed with the authority of a Hell-born throne.

Baal, First Crown of the Infernal Table, his form cloaked in war-mist and eyes made from molten law, was the first to speak.

"We are gathered," he intoned, voice like a mountain sliding into the sea, "to determine who among us shall present contract to the mortal boy, Alexander Duarte-Alizade. He has already signed with Barbatos, and carries a partial claim from Danatallion."

He turned, horns gleaming with golden veining, toward the shadow of a shifting figure. "Will you make that claim a full one, Master of a Thousand Faces?"

Danatallion's presence rippled like a page being turned in the wind of another world. His eyes were mirrors, and his body held the outlines of hundreds of selves flickering just beneath the surface.

"No," he said simply. "While the boy is... entertaining, he is bibliokinetic. A tome-walker, as I once was. To claim him would only bind him to lesser ink. He needs wild stories. Not the tamed, curated fictions I now contain."

A low, contemptuous laugh rolled from the throne of Andromalius, the Demon of Greed and Victory. He stood tall, broad-shouldered and crowned in red iron. Rubies ran down his spine like a trail of blood turned to crystal.

"Pathetic!" Adromalius thundered. "You cloak your cowardice in philosophy. Power respects power. You'd do well to remember that."

Danatallion did not respond. His silence was eloquent.

But another voice slithered through the chamber, smooth and suffocating, like a serpent tightening its coils. Vassago, the Oracle of Broken Fates, leaned forward in his throne, fingers drumming the edge of a tome bound in living skin.

"We all know power respects power," he hissed, "but not all power is physical, Andromalius. The boy is unstable. Valuable. But volatile. Contracts require energy, mana, and our stores are not infinite. We cannot waste the opportunity. The first true contract must be chosen with intention."

A stillness followed. Not agreement. Not dissent. But calculation.

Then, suddenly—without flash, without sound—a window of moonlight opened high above the central sigil.

From it, descended a figure cloaked in green twilight and silver threads. His boots made no sound on the stone. His bow was strung with starlight. His eyes held the calm of one who never missed.

Leraje, the Silent Arrow. The Demon of the Marked Heart. Assassin of fallen forests.

"I shall be perfect for him," Leraje said, his voice ageless, yet young. "The boy walks the path of magic, bow, and Arte. Let me—alongside Barbatos—guide him into the hunter he could become."

Baal's brows furrowed, the shadows of his face twitching with concern. "You, Leraje? You, who are famous for patience, for waiting centuries between the drawing of your bow and the release of a single arrow? You, who refused to speak when the Seraph Titania walked into hell itself? Why do you act now—and so quickly?"

The room leaned toward silence again, as if creation itself inhaled.

Leraje stepped into the center, one foot resting on the edge of the glowing sigil.

Then he answered, simply:

"Because. Unlike the rest of you—"

His eyes gleamed, twin crescents reflecting a song only he could hear.

"—I know what it means to hear the song."

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