Though the gods and lesser divines could not pierce the veil of the second orange dome, curiosity rippled through the heavens like wildfire. The disturbance of a Supreme Being—rare and audacious—had not gone unnoticed. Whispers spread through the higher planes, threads of divinity weaving intrigue. What was so important—so chaotic—that a Supreme had broken neutrality to intervene?

The boldest among them dared to peer closer, bending their consciousness toward the anomaly. But they still couldn't see or feel what was happening inside.

But not all were blocked out.

Four Supremes, each a cosmic truth in their own right, shifted their attention to the dome.

One's gaze came as a blinding sunbeam through blackened space.

Another's as a ripple across time.

The third's as a scent—like old ink, perfume, and blood.

And the last's as a simple hum, an unseen tune threading through every realm.

Each leaned closer.

Because, within that sealed dome of orange flame and bleeding light, they saw something they hadn't witnessed in eons—

Mortals rewriting their own fate.

And that was something even Supremes rarely ignored.

—————

In the realm of the divine thrones—an endless ring of light and authority suspended above a mirrored cosmos—the scrying pool churned with living color. The Story was growing again. Each ripple from the mortal realms twisted upward, rewriting fate in streaks of gold, red, and black. The gods leaned closer to watch. Some murmured prayers, others sharpened blades of reason and prophecy.

But Mi'Lerntra Di Xucruul, one of the eldest among them, did not move. She sat upon her throne of petrified truth, a seat that hummed with unfiltered existence—too sharp, too honest for many to bear. Her skin glimmered like starlight passing through deep ocean obsidian, her eyes nebulae frozen mid-collapse. Where others fidgeted or whispered, she only breathed, steady as the slow pulse of eternity.

The Story coiled around her, vibrant and arrogant. She could feel Qui Tensigon's hand behind it—an all-too-familiar narrative parasite wrapping itself around the threads of destiny. Mi'Lerntra's lip twitched.

Not only that—two goddesses had joined in its proliferation, weaving the tale further into the marrow of the circle. The first, Shess'va Hissaria, the Veiled Serpent of Silent Splendor—once radiant, now diminished. A goddess punished and nearly erased for daring to mimic the aesthetics of House Vari. Mi'Lerntra remembered her ascension: brilliant, venomous, inevitable. Shess'va had teetered at the edge of Beyond Divinity, but the House made sure she never crossed. Now she slithered in shadows, helping a Supreme spread this plague of Story.

And beside her, impossibly, worked Familiane, the Veiled Luminara—patron of discipline and gentle light. Her presence was quiet brilliance: robes like shifting moonlight, hair trailing in soft radiance, face hidden beneath a veil spun from living luminescence. The goddess of grace and order… aiding a serpent.

"A snake and a candle sharing the same altar," Mi'Lerntra whispered. "How curious."

They had not dared approach her section of the thrones—not yet. Even now, the hum of their cooperation irritated her, a faint hiss of hypocrisy against the vast quiet of her dominion.

And then there was Emilia Hornswat Qui Tensigon, the Penship Outlander—one of Qui's most prized Chronicle Wardens, breaker of myths, silencer of names. Her recent disappearance was… instructive. Whatever had pulled Emilia away had weight—possibly enough to unbalance even Qui's web.

Still, Mi'Lerntra was pleased. Emilia's absence spared her the irritation of competing narratives. Her focus could remain where it belonged: with her followers, with the Blood Prince, and with the unfolding theater below.

Her gaze drifted toward the mortal realm reflected in the scrying pool. She smiled faintly, watching Ozzy—her "nephew," as he insisted—move like chaos personified, blade singing, laughter wild. Against all expectation, he was thriving. Mortal or not, the fool earned her favor with every reckless victory.

"Proud of you, boy," she murmured, leaning back.

The Story flickered again, a pulse of orange where she could not see. The second dome—sealed, Supreme-made. No god could pierce that sight.

But she did not worry.

She had faith in her players. The Blood Prince was a storm in flesh, and his allies were bound by thread and purpose stronger than prophecy. Whatever schemes they tangled themselves in, they would survive.

Mi'Lerntra exhaled once, eyes closing. The constellations in her irises shifted.

Not all the gods had fallen into the Story's trap, but the two goddesses—Shess'va and Familiane—along with the remnants of Qui Tensigon's following, had converted many to their fable. The spreading of that false gospel now twisted through the divine realm like a parasitic vine. Every glance Mi'Lerntra felt across the circle of thrones was heavy with judgment. Her interference had not gone unnoticed. Still, she sat motionless, regal, unbothered. Being of Greater Divinity had its advantages. One of them was simple—no one dared challenge you directly.

The silence broke when Shess'va Hissaria and Familiane approached. The scrying pool dimmed slightly under their arrival, as if the realm itself anticipated something unpleasant.

"Mi'Lerntra," said Shess'va, her voice a silk-thread whisper, winding and deliberate. The serpent goddess's body coiled and uncoiled beneath the folds of her flowing scales. "You've been so quiet while the Story evolves. Surely even you must see its beauty."

Familiane stepped forward, her glow soft but insistent, every word radiating calm persuasion. "We do not wish for discord. The Story only grows stronger as more lend their essence to it. It is becoming a harmony of gods—one we invite you to join."

Mi'Lerntra's starlit eyes lifted. "A harmony, you call it? Sounds more like a contagion."

Familiane's serene smile wavered. "You misunderstand. The Story brings unity. Purpose."

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"And blindness," Mi'Lerntra replied. "A fine combination."

Shess'va's expression sharpened, the faint hiss of her breath echoing between the thrones. "You risk much by opposing the storyteller's will. Even Greater Divinity has limits, Mi'Lerntra. Do not make yourself… irrelevant."

Mi'Lerntra smiled faintly. "Irrelevant. You speak of irrelevance while chained to another's narrative. How poetic."

Familiane's light pulsed brighter, the gentle mercy in her tone thinning to authority. "Mind your tone, sister. There is only so much isolation even the ancient can endure."

The constellations in Mi'Lerntra's eyes shifted, aligning with her mood. Her throne vibrated, and a pressure rolled outward—soft but absolute. The air thickened. The divine pool quaked. Their light and shadow both dimmed under her presence.

"I am a goddess of kindness," she said, her voice a calm weight. "But do not mistake kindness for mercy. Mercy spares the foolish. Kindness merely lets them realize their error."

Both goddesses flinched under the veiled brilliance that poured from her, a cold radiance that made Familiane's light seem dim and Shess'va's shadow seem thin.

"Run back to your Story," Mi'Lerntra continued, her voice quiet, unyielding. "Play your parts. Sing your lines. But do not stand before me again and forget your place. I was worshiped before your pantheons learned how to whisper."

The serpent goddess lowered her gaze first, scales rattling faintly as she bowed her head. Familiane followed, veil flickering with strained composure.

Mi'Lerntra leaned back on her throne, watching them retreat through the trembling light. The other gods avoided her eyes. The Story still swelled around them, but for now, none dared approach.

Then they felt it—an arrival that rippled through the realm itself. The air between the thrones fractured, constellations dimmed, and even the Story—the living thread now bound to this realm—stuttered mid-sentence. Something greater was entering.

A golden ship tore through the divine veil, vast enough to eclipse several worlds. Its hull shimmered with molten sigils, serpentine and alive, each one bearing the mark of Vari. From its core, a stairway unfurled—formed of coiling golden snakes dripping venom that turned to radiant fire the moment it touched the ground.

Kaela Vrenn Vari descended.

Her steps were measured, unhurried, yet each one resounded like a celestial verdict. The air warped around her presence—an oppressive, beautiful gravity that made even the most arrogant gods lower their gaze. Her black hair was bound by golden bands, faintly aglow, and the black scarf across her mouth shimmered with runes that pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. Her eyes burned molten gold, pupils sharp and unblinking, radiating power refined through endless annihilation.

The divine circle fell silent. Demi-gods clutched their sigils of protection. Seraphic spirits flickered out entirely. No one dared breathe too loudly, let alone speak, not before one Beyond Divinity.

Mi'Lentra sat forward on her throne, stars within her eyes flickering like distant storms. The sight of that golden insignia across Kaela's chest told her everything she needed to know.

Vari's hand had moved again.

The Outlander reached the base of the staircase. The serpents slithered back into gold, sealing the path behind her as if cutting off retreat. Her aura expanded—thick with conceptual fire, layered with a secondary force. This was incineration made divine. A will that did not simply burn matter—it burned concepts themselves.

Mi'Lentra sighed softly. So this was how the Supremes intended to handle the infection.

Across the circle, Familiane's veil of light flickered, and Shess'va's scales tensed with an involuntary hiss. Even they knew what this meant. Vari never sent Kaela Vrenn for diplomacy.

This was a cleansing.

The Story had gone too far, and the price for hubris was always blood.

Mi'Lentra rested her chin against her palm, her voice low enough to make the air tremble. "Well," she murmured, "things are about to get entertaining."

Kaela lifted her head slightly, her golden eyes scanning the assembly. For a moment, it looked like she was studying who would be first.

And in that silence, the Story and every god and goddess in the circle trembled. Collateral was about to begin.

————

Below that divine realm, deep inside the first dome, Tabia stood sentinel beside the frozen bodies of North and Destiny. Her coral barrier pulsed faintly around them—an elegant weave of green and crimson ridges designed to deflect both physical and spiritual tampering. She kept careful distance from the secondary dome, the strange orange structure that shimmered and whispered.

Sparks and flame roared above. The clash between Ozzy and his fiery opponent lit up the fractured skyline like a second sun. Every blow sent heat rippling across the ruined platforms. The first dome was shaking, and yet Tabia only smiled faintly. Ozzy was fine. She could feel it—his wild, unrestrained energy still burned bright through the chaotic storm. The other fighter was giving him a real challenge, which meant her captain was enjoying himself.

Her gaze turned to the wreckage around her. The corpse of the "vermin" she'd slain earlier was still smoking nearby, its strange gems cracked and leaking faint colors. It had taken far more effort than she liked—each gem seemed to turn its host into some sort of radiant weapon, and the resulting power spikes had sunk half the platforms before she could neutralize it. Even then, she'd had to restrain herself, mindful of the Jujisns locked in stasis.

Still, everything had gone well for the most part. North and Destiny were alive, their forms caught between time and concept. The coral barrier around them thrummed steadily, preserving their tether to the physical world.

Now all she could do was wait.

Whatever was happening inside the second dome was beyond her perception—beyond even her understanding. She clenched her jaw and glanced back at the pair's still forms.

"Come back soon," she whispered. "Captain's got his hands full up there, and I'm running out of patience."

Another shockwave shook the dome, a streak of red fire cutting the horizon as Ozzy's laughter echoed faintly over the chaos.

Tabia's smile returned, sharp and proud. Now, it was just up to the two Jujisn inside to make it back.

————

Inside the second dome was chaos incarnate. The Story itself convulsed—sentences rewriting, scenes looping, entire moments erasing and reforming faster than the mind could comprehend. The air flickered between parchment and flame, and the stage kept rearranging itself as if arguing with the concept of stability. Jamal and Cale's words struck like weapons, each verse and phrase igniting waves of light that crashed into the audience.

The souls screamed, their cheers and cries layering into something far from human. It wasn't noise—it was worship, feeding the Story's heartbeat.

North squinted. "This damn thing is cheating. Every time Jamal gets the crowd, it shifts tone—changes rhythm. It's rewriting the outcome before it happens."

Destiny's jaw tightened. "It's not cheating. It's predetermined. The Story has an ending, and it's just forcing its way there. Like all bad fairy tales, the author doesn't believe in free will."

North snorted. "Then we just gotta tear out the last page."

Destiny blinked, giving him a sharp side-eye. "You can't be serious."

"I mean… kinda." He looked at her with that reckless spark—the one that usually came right before something catastrophic or brilliant. "If the Story's got a set ending, we just Unravel it. Force a paradox. Make the damn thing choke on its own narrative."

"That's not 'tearing a page,' North. That's self-destruction."

"It might work."

"It could kill us."

"Semantics."

Destiny pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah," he said, smiling faintly. "It's insane but it might actually work. Plus we don't have many options. Jamal won't last forever."

While the two argued, Crisper from her seat—still half-frozen—and shouted as loud as she could, "LET'S GO JAMAL! YOU BETTER WIN THIS SHIT! DO THE BLOCK PROUD!!" Her voice cracked through the noise, earning startled glances from half the crowd.

Ria, sitting beside her, didn't move. Her hand drifted lazily through the air, fingers tracing invisible runes, her yellow eyes fixated on the shifting battle as though she saw layers beyond what the others could.

Up on the stage, Cale's verses hit like thunder. Jamal's bars countered with rhythm and grit, his words slicing through the fabricated order of the Story like raw truth. Each word burned; each line glowed; the dome itself pulsed with every syllable.

But North could see it—the edges of the dome tightening, the Story closing in. Jamal wasn't losing yet, but Cale didn't have to win. He just had to last.

And the Story wanted him to last.

North took a breath. "Alright, Destiny. We're up."

"Don't you dare."

He grinned. "We're gonna Unravel it from the inside."

Destiny groaned. "You can't just unwrite a Supreme's tale."

"Maybe not." His sigils started to rotate and his aura began spilling out his form. "But I can improvise the ending."

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