Chapter 306 – A Throne Built on Blood

The night was silent.

Not the peaceful silence of slumber, nor the gentle hush of the wind through the trees. This was the silence that followed something vile, unnatural. The silence that lingered after the gods themselves had bled.

It was the silence after a massacre.

Eryndor's body crumpled to the blood-soaked stone with a final metallic clatter. His golden armor, once radiant and unyielding, was now cracked and tarnished—drenched in gore. His divine blade lay broken at his side, shards glinting weakly in the moonlight like the remnants of a dying star. And his silver eyes, which once saw through deception and sin alike, now stared into nothingness.

Kael stood over him.

His hand was still slick with the Archon's blood, dripping in slow rivulets down his wrist. For a moment, he didn't speak. He simply watched.

Watched the body.

Watched the crimson pool expand beneath it, swallowing the sacred sigils etched into the palace floor.

Watched the last remnant of a divine age die.

A slow exhale escaped his lips. Calm. Controlled.

He wiped the blood across the edge of his black coat—casually, methodically. The weight in the air remained, pressing down like a storm yet to break.

The war had truly begun.

A low growl echoed in the ruined courtyard, vibrating through stone and shadow.

Then, they shifted—those shadows—parting like curtains before a dark stage.

She emerged.

A woman in tight dark leathers, her crimson hair slick with sweat and the blood of her enemies. Her presence cut through the night like a dagger—sharp, silent, purposeful.

Selene.

She strode over the corpses littering the ground—Imperial knights, shattered Archons, burned clergy. Her boots left faint crimson prints in her wake.

Her dagger spun casually between her fingers.

Her eyes, however, were anything but casual.

They locked onto Eryndor's corpse with a hawk's precision.

"You really did it," she murmured. Her voice held no awe. Only calculation.

She nudged the Archon's body with her foot, frowning faintly. "I almost thought he'd take you down with him."

Kael said nothing.

Instead, his gaze lifted to the sky. Where stars had once glittered proudly, now only darkness remained. The firmament felt heavier tonight—as if it too mourned the loss of a legend.

"Not yet," he said softly. "This was only the beginning."

Selene snorted. "You always were a perfectionist."

She crouched beside Eryndor and pressed two fingers to his chest. A flicker of blue magic danced at her touch, curling upward in faint runes. She held her breath.

Then her brow furrowed.

"No soul," she whispered. "Not even a wisp. Not even residue."

Kael's lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile.

The abyss had claimed everything.

The city of Solmar still slept.

But the air was shifting.

The scent of blood carried on the breeze. The taste of ash. The death of divinity.

The attack had been precise. Surgical. Not an invasion—an execution. The Archons had fallen one by one, overwhelmed by shadows they never believed could touch them.

Their bodies lay like shattered statues across the palace grounds—golden armor twisted and broken. The seal of the Empire smeared in red.

The city would wake soon.

And when it did?

It would wake to terror.

The Archons were dead.

The Empire's divine protectors—its immortal sword, its sacred wall—had been slain in a single night.

And there was only one man whose name would echo in the void they left behind.

Kael.

The Shadow Lord. The Serpent in the Imperial Court. The man who had turned whispers into war, and faith into fear.

A rustle broke the silence.

Kael turned.

From the shadows of a crumbling colonnade staggered a survivor.

A boy—barely a man. A knight-in-training, no more than twenty summers. His pristine armor was torn and bloodstained, his shield missing, sword clutched in shaking hands.

His eyes met Kael's.

And widened.

"Y-You…" the boy croaked. His lips trembled. "You… killed them all…"

Kael stepped forward.

The knight flinched, fear flooding his features. But beneath it was something more—a crumbling foundation. The disillusionment of one raised to believe in untouchable gods.

He had believed in the Archons. Worshipped them.

And now?

They were dead.

Kael extended a hand, palm up. His voice, when it came, was quiet—smooth as silk. "Run."

The knight froze.

"If you live," Kael continued, "you'll speak of this night. Tell them what you saw. Tell them who stood above the corpses of gods. Tell them—"

His golden eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

"—that the age of heaven is over."

The boy hesitated.

Then he turned and fled—sobbing, stumbling, sword clattering behind him.

Kael didn't chase.

He watched.

He wanted them to know.

Far above, in the Imperial Palace, Emperor Castiel stood alone in the highest tower. His once-regal posture had crumbled into a tense, broken stance.

He had watched it all—through arcane mirrors, scrying orbs, and windows tainted with dread.

Lilith's campaign had been brutal.

But this?

This was annihilation.

The Archons—his divine champions, his final defense—were gone.

He clutched the edge of his throne, knuckles white, breath shallow. The sword that once rested proudly beside him now lay forgotten.

Fear clutched his spine like an iron chain.

He had ruled for decades. Toppled kingdoms. Bent the church to his will. Controlled nobles like chess pieces.

But now?

Now, he felt powerless.

"Summon the Cardinals," he rasped to a pale-faced guard.

The man did not move.

He too had seen it.

He had watched a god fall.

Elsewhere, beneath the rising moon, Kael stood on the highest balcony of his estate.

The city stretched before him—a slumbering giant soon to awaken in screams.

Bells began to toll.

The alarm had been raised. Palace guards scurried like ants, already trying to bury what had happened under procedure and confusion.

But they couldn't bury truth.

Truth bled too loud.

Kael inhaled deeply.

The air reeked of blood, death, and something deeper—power. Raw, untamed. A shift in the balance.

He could feel it.

The nobility would panic.

The Holy Church would declare war.

The Emperor would send assassins, armies, prayers.

And all of it would be too late.

Selene stood behind him, her silhouette limned in moonlight.

Kael didn't turn as he spoke.

"Summon the others."

She raised a brow. "Even the ones who still fear the old gods?"

Kael's gaze sharpened. "Especially them."

"What should I tell them?"

He turned, slowly.

And smiled.

"Tell them that the gods are dead."

His eyes burned like twin suns.

"And we are the ones who killed them."

To Be Continued...