“Where is my son?!”
It was not unusual for the Duke to scream for Daronzar every century or so. The younger Infernal was known to travel the Underfires without a word to his father, especially when he ran off to see one of his lesser Uncles. He knew his father would immediately summon him back from whatever pit of debauchery he’d fallen into. He could borrow just a little more time for his indulgences if his father didn’t immediately know where to find him.
This time, however, was not usual. The majordomo to Vitrathius knew where Daronzar was and he knew his Master would lash out at the answer. Daronzar would ultimately receive the worse punishment, but for now, the attendant would be the one to suffer for the affront.
“Sire, he departed a few decades ago. He… was called.”
Vitrathius slammed his fists down, cracking the white marble slab and knocking over half a dozen ancient velum scrolls.
“Called by which of my brothers, and for what purpose, exactly?”
The majordomo shrank as low as he could into his bow without kneeling.
“Not by one of your brothers, sire. Nor by any Infernal, as a matter of fact. Daronzar is on Thea.”

☼

The Imperial Library was typically closed after sunset, but the guards knew better than to turn the visitor away. No scribes or sages were needed to guide them through the stacks, and the Royal Latrimanian Seal functioned as a key to access the private wing of the archives.
On the shelves there were books of exotic origin, old treatises of tactics written by military commanders of the War of Blood and Steel, and arcane tomes too dangerous to be available to the average curious scholar. The visitor needed none of those things.
In an area reserved for alchemy and medicine, a sleeved arm reached up for a particular book on a certain shelf. A silent breath blew dust off of the old manual, and the stone walls echoed the sound of turning pages before a quick rip brought silence to the room once more.
The visitor replaced the book on the shelf and left as quickly as they’d arrived, returning to the palace with the end of the Sronah dynasty tucked into their robe.

☼

The Celestial Conclave had ended, as they often do, in a shouting match. No weapons were drawn this time, and no angels had to postpone their plans to reorient themselves after resurrection. All in all, it was a relatively boring meeting, so far as these things go.
Michael had been unusually quiet. Although he and his kin were ostensibly equals, they all looked to him as their leader. He knew this, and the burden of that responsibility often tempered his reactions and stilled his tongue. Still, he rarely allowed debates to derail so thoroughly as to end a legislative session without a single decision being reached on anything. He did not even admonish the ministers who walked out early, he simply kept taking occasional notes until they were forced to adjourn.
Now he walked away in silence, towards the Throne of Araboth. He did not pause to speak even with his fellow seraphim, but simply strode to his chambers, his mind clearly elsewhere.

☼

The fallen paladin was beside himself. The Cycle was reaching its apex, and soon the Heroes of the Aevum would again be called to save time, space, and reality. Once more, they would fail.
But this time would be different. He would not let the last Shaper steal away his prize again. He knew that Death was old, tired, and weak. This would be the final Cycle. His plans, his countless millennia of work, would finally bear fruit. This was what it was all for. This was the truest justice. No one could see it but him.
He simply needed to wait for the Heroes of the Aevum to make themselves known on Thea. He wouldn’t kill them or consume them this time. No, now they would serve him, knowingly or not. They would help him become the one true god of the whole of Creation.

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