When Distant Fires Burn
Far beyond the borders of Zantrayel, where the sky shimmered with three suns and the ground bloomed with crystal-rooted trees, the Celestian Pantheon gathered in their own celebration.
Not of wine.
Not of dance.
But of calculation.
Their altars bled starlight instead of blood. Their music was the hum of fate-chimes and echo-spheres. Here, in the Mirrored Spire of Kareth, the Oracles of the Twelve Veins chanted—not for joy, but for the shaping of consequence.
The Feast of Strategy
Seated on thrones of living silver, the Celestian Gods watched their high priests serve a feast unlike any other.
Crimson fruit grown from the thoughts of dying stars.
Meat cut from beasts hunted in memory-dreams.
Wine brewed from the storms of dying worlds.
Each bite, each sip, enhanced the vision.
They saw Zantrayel's celebration—not in flesh, but through the weave of time. The dance of Ayola, the laughter of Zion, the fire in the priestesses' steps—all reflected in the orbs of foresight they passed from one god-hand to the next.
They did not cheer.
They did not praise.
They studied.
The Twelve Observers Speak
The god known as Va'tural, Lord of Stellar Silence, spoke first.
"The Hive has been wounded… but not destroyed. The flame of celebration is beautiful. But it blinds."
The goddess Sel'vura, Weaver of Constellation Threads, added:
"Zion is dangerous. Not because he is powerful. But because he binds others. Even the gods around him listen when he speaks."
Another voice, colder, ancient, less a god than a forgotten law—Irrath-Zhun, Who Calculates Endings—murmured:
"The Hive now hungers for him. And we must prepare. Let them dance. Let them feast. We will count every beat of their hearts."
Their Own Celebration
Though cold and alien, even the Celestian pantheon celebrated—in their own way.
They activated ancient vaults.
They awakened sleeping warriors carved from cosmic stone.
They sent silver seeds across dead moons to grow new temples.
One god, Mek'zhul the Mind-Eater, whispered into the ears of three mortals born with stardust in their veins—seeding prophets who would rise in coming storms.
This was their feast.
Preparation. Precision. Power.
One Gaze Turned Toward Ginen
Amid the murmur of plotting and fate-weaving, a single god turned their attention to Ginen.
They saw Papa Legba, the doorway.
They saw Tijan Petro, the burning.
They saw the sealed gate from which Baka la Kwa had emerged.
And they whispered, not aloud, but into the fabric of time:
"There are hungers worse than the Hive. And doors that should have remained shut."
The Celestian gods raised no cup.
They gave no toast.
But above their throne-world, the stars shifted.
And not a single one smiled.