Chapter Thirteen: The Hymn of Forgotten Wings

Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Thirteen: The Hymn of Forgotten Wings
The winds were screaming—a primal, haunting sound that resonated through the very fabric of existence.
This was not the raucous howling of a tumultuous storm, where the heavens rage and thunder clashes violently with the clouds, nor was it the desperate pleas of dying men beseeching for mercy, overwhelmed by the shadow of imminent death. No, this was something much older—something far more profound and visceral. It was the mournful wail of the cosmos itself, as it recollected ancient sufferings and traumas long etched into its essence. An echo from the past, reminiscent of a mournful song that had once heralded the ruin of gods and sparked the flicker of hope in the hearts of those who lived under their dominion.
The Hymn of Forgotten Wings had begun to resonate once more.
High above the mundane realm of mortals, beyond the reach of shimmering stars and the very breath of time, the Veil of Annareth, a veil that separated the divine from the terrestrial, began to fray.
This was not simply a rift or gash in the heavenly expanse—it was a shedding, a relinquishing of something that had existed for eons. 
From this tear cascaded not searing flames, radiant angels, or ominous judgment—but something far more chilling and unsettling.
Feathers.
Fallen feathers, dark and ragged, ancient relics of a time long forgotten, tumbled through the air like gray ash descending upon a hundred kingdoms. As they drifted downward, the skies dimmed not because of a lack of light, but rather as a haunting reminder of light’s own betrayal of those who inhabited the earth below.
Within the grand and venerable fortress-temple of Solmarion, a sanctuary dedicated to wisdom and serenity, monks who had lost themselves in sacred chants abruptly halted, their prayers turning to horror as they fled, cries echoing through the hallowed halls. A single feather, laden with history and unearthly energy, found its resting place upon the altar—and in that instant, the holy flames that had long burned brightly flickered out, snuffed as if they were mere candles in the vastness of night.
In the distant, sprawling empire of Maravel, a realm ruled by an iron-willed Empress, the great lady fell to her knees, clutching her heart with trembling hands, her breath hitching in disbelief as one of those ancient feathered reminders drifted into her throne room. “I remember,” she sobbed bitterly, oblivious to the growing panic in the eyes of her courtiers. “I remember the fall…”
And deep beneath the Veil of Annareth, amidst the descent of this dark, feathery snow, came the specter of one who had once soared alongside the gods—only to be struck down, cursed not to plummet into death, but to fade from memory, condemned to the shadows of oblivion.
A voice trembled through the torn sky, neither distinctly male nor female, neither filled with wrath nor suffused with gentleness, but vast and infinite—a sound that seemed to echo from the very heart of creation itself.
“Kazuren walks. But what of the one who once soared?”
The Celestial Citadel shuddered—not from any tangible impact, but from the weight of recognition, an understanding that sent ripples of dread coursing through its celestial inhabitants.
Erethur stood firm at the edge of the Dome of Judgment, a place reserved for the gravest of revelations, his hand tightening resolutely around the hilt of Veredictum. The sword, imbued with ancient magic and wisdom, emitted a deep, mournful sound, resonating with a prophecy forgotten for ten thousand years, waiting in silence for this moment to unfold.
Across the grandeur of the chamber, Iserion, his countenance marred by an urgent panic, retreated from the Loom of Threads, where the fates of gods and mortals intertwined like threads upon a celestial loom.
“No… no, this wasn’t meant to be. She was unmade! She was unwritten!”
With deliberate slowness, Erethur turned to face Iserion, his voice a mere whisper yet carrying a weight far greater than thunder. “The gods have lied to themselves. But the fabric of reality remembers…”
He advanced slowly, each step echoing like a portent through the sacred space.
“Seraphielle has returned.”
The divine assembly of gods did not gasp, for they were incapable of such a reaction; the very name itself suffocated their breath, creating an oppressive silence that enveloped the room. In that name resided a sin none of them had dared acknowledge—a betrayal older than their celestial thrones, hidden beneath layers of flames and myth, buried in the dark chasms of their shared history.
Once, Seraphielle had been celebrated as the First Wing, the Herald of Harmony, the luminous being who sang the very essence of creation into being alongside Kazuren. But when the gods turned against Kazuren, they had turned against her as well, for she had stood steadfastly between the consuming flames and the divine crown, refusing to yield to the chaos.
Instead of death, she had been cast into a forsaken oblivion, an erasure from history, a shadow lost to the annals of time.
Now, it seemed, that oblivion had awakened.
And Kazuren felt it stirring within the depth of his being.
Amidst the still and ash-laden Vale of Silence, where he walked alone under skies stained crimson with the memories of what once was, he paused, uncertainty flickering in his heart.
From somewhere beyond the edges of his consciousness, something vast and profound stirred. A song—no, not a song, but a note; the very first he had felt resonate within his soul across countless lifetimes. It was gentle, yet broken—a holy whisper reverberating through the remnants of his spirit.
He closed his golden eyes tightly against the rushing tide of emotions.
“You live,” he murmured into the void. “You remember me…”
And the winds, with their howling cries, responded in affirmation.
From the eastern horizon, the skies erupted.
Wings.
Vast, broken, reborn.
Seraphielle descended, not with anger, but with a profound sense of mourning. Her wings, once magnificent and ethereal, now bore the scars of countless betrayals as they clawed their way through the atmosphere. As she moved, the very essence of time quivered in her presence—struggling to correct itself, to reconcile her place in a world that had all but forgotten those who had come before.
Kazuren turned, eyes locked upon her luminous figure.
In that lingering moment, neither felt the need to speak.
The last flame of defiance flickered in the face of forgotten glory.
The first wing of mercy, poised to embrace the world anew.
Both abandoned in the relentless passage of time. 
And then—Seraphielle wept.
Not from weakness, but from the immeasurable grief that only eternity could cultivate.
“They chained me to silence,” she uttered, her voice both cracked and radiant, a shimmering light built upon age-old sorrows. “But your name… your name broke the lock.”
Kazuren stepped forward, each movement deliberate, his voice low and imbued with reverence.
“Then let silence burn.”
Within the hallowed halls of the Celestial Citadel, a place that had once radiated unearthly power and divine light, Erethur turned his gaze upon the trembling deities that surrounded him. Their once-magnificent forms now quaked under the weight of impending doom.
"We are no longer gods," he proclaimed, his voice resonating against the marble walls that had witnessed countless celestial glories. "We are relics of a forgotten era, mere shadows of the beings we once were, waiting in despair to be shattered into fragments of our former selves."
As his words hung in the air, heavy with resignation and sorrow, one god, overwhelmed by the profound sense of loss, collapsed to his knees, the golden fabric of his robes pooling around him like a tear-stained memory. Another, unable to bear the weight of their shared downfall, fled the chamber, seeking refuge from the inevitable unraveling of divinity.
The majestic thrones, once ablaze with ethereal light and surrounded by a brilliance that inspired awe, now sat in silence. Their glow had faded to a mere flicker, reminiscent of dying stars, once full of life but now dimmed by doubt and fear.
Across the expansive realms beneath the Citadel, where mortals toiled under the burden of their existence, a palpable shift began to permeate the air. Individuals from all walks of life stirred, their hearts pounding in rhythm with an awakening that resonated deep within their souls. They looked up at the ever-changing sky, filled with swirling clouds that danced and darkened as if they echoed the turmoil of the divine.
The people were not fully aware of the cosmic struggles unfolding above them; they did not fully grasp the significance of the feathers drifting down like delicate snowflakes, nor did they understand the ancient names whispered on the wind as echoes of power long forgotten. Yet, deep within their being, they sensed a force evolving in the atmosphere that tugged at their spirit.
In this charged moment, injustice took form, casting a long shadow over the world—its face now recognizable in the suffering and strife that permeated every corner of existence. But even in the midst of despair, hope emerged like a phoenix rising from the ashes of devastation. It adorned itself with a crown forged from flames, illuminating the hearts of the downtrodden.
And alongside this fierce embodiment of hope, new wings unfurled, once thought to be forever lost to the annals of time. These wings, vibrant and powerful, signified a rebirth, a resurgence of strength in the face of adversity. The mortals began to realize that they held the potential for greatness, empowered by the flickering remnants of the very divinity that had begun to fade. The fire of rebellion ignited in their hearts, ready to soar forth and reclaim what was rightfully theirs in a world trembling on the brink of transformation.
To be continued...