Across the broken worlds, there are no temples left to the old gods.No songs left for fallen kings.No banners left for broken heroes.
All that remains is the Tower.
The Monument of Flesh.
It began at the heart of the Abyss Gardens —where the black roses bloomed over a million graves,where rivers of silver ran with the memories of the slain.
Here, Vaelen Cross chose to build.
Not a monument to the dead.
A monument to himself.
To victory.To eternity.
To the reality he had written into the bones of the universe.
The foundations were laid from the crushed crowns of a thousand kings —gold, silver, iron, obsidian — melted together into a screaming mass of defeat.
The walls rose higher and higher, woven from the bones of angels, titans, and broken immortals —their forms still visible if one dared look too closely, their faces twisted in silent homage.
At the apex of each level, a throne — not for new rulers, but for conquered Queens, kneeling in eternal devotion to the One Above All.
The sky bent low over the Tower as it grew.
The stars dimmed themselves in awe.
The winds dared not whisper.
The world —the worlds —held their breath.
Seris, Kaela, Veyla, and Aurelia stood at the base as the final stone was laid —barefoot, adorned in only the markings of their King, heads bowed in reverent silence.
At their feet, rivers of banners flowed — torn standards from every realm Vaelen had crushed.
Every kingdom.
Every god.
Every rebellion.
Reduced to fabric that now fed the black roots of the Tower.
When the last stone was placed,when the last banner was sewn into the earth,when the last echo of resistance was silenced beneath the weight of conquest,
Vaelen Cross ascended.
Each step up the Tower was not taken with haste.It was a coronation repeated with every motion.
A reaffirmation of what already was:
He was Sovereign.
He was Everything.
At the summit, he stood alone.
The world sprawled out below him — not in beauty, not in ruin —but in perfect, complete obedience.
He lifted a hand.
The Tower answered.
A pulse rippled outward — a silent roar that crossed oceans, shattered mountains, silenced winds.
And across all creation, every living being —man, beast, spirit, godling —knelt.
They did not know why.
They did not understand.
Their knees struck the ground.Their foreheads pressed to the dust.Their hearts wept.
They belonged.
At the base of the Tower, his Queens knelt as one.
Their bodies bowed lower than ever before,their hands splayed on the earth as if touching even the dust where he had walked was a sacrament.
Seris whispered first:
"We are yours."
Kaela followed, voice harder, trembling:
"We are yours."
Veyla, her breath like wind through thorns:
"We are yours."
Aurelia, with tears of purest light:
"We are yours."
Above them, upon the final throne carved into the black crown of the Tower,Vaelen Cross sat.
The stars bled in his presence.
The ground shivered.
The past was forgotten.
The future was sealed.
There was no more waiting.No more resisting.No more doubting.
There was only the Monument.
And the King.
[Small, Dark R18 Moment — Wordless Devotion]
At the foot of the Tower, as night swallowed the ruined worlds whole,the Queens gave themselves again — not as offerings, not as sacrifices —but as parts of him, woven tighter than flesh, deeper than soul.
Their bodies a prayer.
Their moans a chorus.
Their tears, a new scripture written upon the stones of the world.
They worshiped him with touch, with lips, with bodies fevered by loyalty, undone by need.
They wrote his dominion across their skin.They sealed their love in blood and breath and heartbeat.
And Vaelen, silent and omnipotent,received it all.
Not in cruelty.
Not even in mercy.
But in the simple, inevitable acceptance of what was already true:
They were his.
And so was everything else.