The Pale Order

They gathered not as kings, nor as myths—but as the last line between order and oblivion.

The Pale Order.

Ten individuals, each bound to one of the Ten Kingdoms, chosen not by vote nor birth, but by surviving the impossible. Each bore a different lineage—some human, some elf, some born of dragonblood—and all had crossed the threshold of power: Level Four, where the rules of the world bent or broke in their presence.

They did not meet often. When they did, realms held their breath.

The meeting chamber was an ancient one—hidden in the hollow heart of the world, where even time moved slower, more careful. Stone pillars wound with runes spiraled into unseen skies. Above them, a dome of crystal stars reflected not constellations—but moments yet to come. The air thrummed with truth and contradiction.

At the center stood Widowlight, the one who called the meeting.

She wore no crown. Only a black veil that never touched the ground, woven from compressed sorrow. Her blade—Null Requiem—rested at her side, a weapon forged in the collapse of a forgotten kingdom. Where she stood, gravity softened, as if grief itself refused weight.

To her left stood The Maw King, part-man, part-devourer. Horns curled from his skull like melted bone, and a jaw lined with runes hung half-open in hunger. His Evolvanth, Redgut, pulsed like a second heart, alive with memory and appetite. His kingdom, Cavermar, hadn't seen famine in a thousand years. Not because he fed them—because he fed for them.

Next, Her Silence, veiled in void-colored robes. Elven, ageless, faceless. Around her, language ceased. Even thought hesitated. She stood for Veyrdalis, the Skyborn Empire, where music once ruled all magic. She ended it with a breath.

The Last Reader stood slightly apart, flipping through a tome bound in skin made from unrealized stories. He bore the seal of Chronias, the Clockwork Kingdom. One of the few full humans among them. His fingers wrote futures in the margins of forgotten pasts.

Near him, seated cross-legged atop floating marble, was Blade 0. His arms were crisscrossed with scars, his eyes faintly glowing with forgotten duels. His kingdom—Shamorran, the Warrior Fold—had not lost a war in three centuries. His smile was relaxed. But the blade across his lap, Edge Unborn, twitched at the whisper of a fight.

White Grave stood near the far edge, where cold pooled unnaturally. Her breath fogged the air, though no one else exhaled. Her Evolvanth, Frostroot, seeped through her skin like ice blooming beneath flesh. She guarded Vel'Sura, the North of Endless Dusk. Her eyes remained closed, yet she saw everything.

On the stone floor knelt Stonedust Saint, a giant draped in vines and bonecloth. His draconic blood was obvious—cracks of light glowed along his back, like magma barely sealed. His knuckles brushed the ground, communing with the ley-lines beneath. He was guardian of Tor'Maul, the Earth Cradle. The mountains obeyed when he wept.

Mothfire hovered slightly above the ground, her cloak flickering between royal regalia and battle-torn myth. Her eyes glowed with belief, shifting between shapes. Her kingdom, Myrravale, was the Realm of Tales—and she ruled it by becoming the stories whispered about her.

Brother Spine leaned against a column of pulsating nerves. A tangle of cables ran from his spine into the stone. His Evolvanth, Chordveil, connected him to a thousand bodies across Naenith, the War Choir nation. When he blinked, someone screamed—somewhere.

And finally…

Stillborn God.

He did not sit. Did not stand. He simply was. Wrapped in paradox, a contradiction made flesh. His skin shimmered between colors that had no names. No one remembered which kingdom he was tied to—or if that kingdom still existed.

Widowlight raised her hand, and the chamber quieted—more than it already was.

She spoke three words.

"Arthur Starlight lives."

The stars above shimmered. A ripple of names moved across them. One name pulsed brighter.

Arthur. Starlight.

The Last Reader closed his tome, frowning.

"Level One," he said. "But not unread."

The Maw King chuckled, red mist curling from his jaw. "Something old sleeps in that blood."

White Grave opened one eye. The temperature dropped ten degrees. "It stirred," she whispered. "The Riftbeast bowed."

Gasps would've filled the room—if the Pale Order gasped.

Her Silence tilted her head.

Mothfire smiled. "He's already a rumor."

Brother Spine twitched. "And some have begun to believe."

Blade 0 stood slowly. "Shall I test him?"

"No," Widowlight said. Her voice didn't echo. Echoes feared her.

"We watch. We wait."

Stillborn God turned.

And time flinched.