They continued their slow procession down the endless golden road, their reflections faintly distorted on the polished bricks, as if the palace itself were trying to blur their passage. The Royal Gates now loomed in the near distance—an immense barrier, magnificent and forbidding in equal measure, shimmering subtly beneath the artificial sun. Yet, as they drew near, something caught Lysivelle's eye, pulling her gaze sharply to the walls that flanked the road, where a single piece of artwork had been masterfully hung.

She knew this painting well, since she had passed by it a hundred times before, but familiarity had never lessened its power. It was a scene haunting in its simplicity yet unsettling in its hidden meaning: a lone captain stood on the prow of a modest boat, his face contorted in shock and despair, his eyes blinded by a single, fierce beam of sunlight piercing an otherwise pitch-black sky. There was no moon nor any stars, only that thin ray of searing light, falling like judgment from the heavens themselves, illuminating the captain's terrified expression as his vessel shattered violently upon sharp, unseen rocks. And from beneath the ink-dark water rose a single human arm, pale and desperate, its fingers stretched upwards as if pleading for salvation or condemning the captain for the doom he brought.

Lysivelle shivered visibly, a tremor of unease passing through her entire form. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft yet filled with genuine awe, a quiet reverence reserved only for things that truly frightened her in their beauty. "It never gets old to look at," she murmured, almost more to herself than to either of her companions. "No matter how many times I look upon it, it feels as though it sees me more clearly than I see it."

Chaos turned his head slowly, flaming eyes lingering upon the artwork, the shadows beneath his hood deepening as if drawn closer by the painting's darkness. "Bosch," he said quietly, the chains on his limbs murmuring softly with something almost akin to respect. "There has never been a greater artist born into this world than Hieronymus Bosch."

Otharon, despite his simmering frustrations, found himself nodding in solemn agreement, his gaze fixed upon the haunting imagery. "Nor a more powerful one," he admitted, voice carrying a rare note of sincere admiration. "He is a man who has earned my deepest respect. Perhaps someday soon, I will call for him myself, to commission a piece worthy of my halls."

But before the Marshal had even finished speaking, Chaos lifted one shadow-clad hand in a slow, forbidding gesture, stopping him mid-sentence. His voice was calm but carried an undeniable finality. "No, Marshal. Bosch is indeed a great man, but after the completion of the Royal Gates, the crown itself agreed never again to disturb him or call upon his talents. It was a solemn promise, one made in respect of his art and peace."

Otharon chuckled lightly, almost dismissively, the sound sharp yet somehow good-natured beneath his stern facade. "Oh, I know the decree well enough, my lord. But I happen to be a close friend of his son. Perhaps it need not be the crown that calls him, but merely a friend seeking a favor."

At this, Lysivelle tilted her head just enough to glance at the Marshal, a spark of amusement igniting in her silver eyes. "Careful, Lord Otharon," she said smoothly, a subtle yet pointed smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Using friendship as a cloak for royal authority is an old habit. I fear it suits you rather too naturally."

Chaos let out a quiet laugh at this, a genuine sound of unexpected amusement breaking free from beneath his hood. Otharon's mouth tightened briefly, yet he allowed himself a reluctant half-smile, acknowledging her verbal strike with grudging respect. "Touché, Duchess," he muttered softly. "Touché."

Their collective attention then turned fully forward once more, for now they had reached the threshold of the Royal Gates themselves. All conversation ceased instantly, replaced by a silence thick with reverence. The Gates rose before them—titanic in their dimensions, reaching impossibly high until they seemed to vanish into the painted clouds above. Each panel was wrought from metal unknown to any forge beyond the palace walls, gleaming silver infused with gold, impossibly fine and perfectly unblemished by time or touch. Engraved into the surface with astonishing detail were thousands upon thousands of figures—legendary Liberators, great heroes, and renowned generals—each one unique, depicted in their moment of greatest triumph or sacrifice.

For the first time since Chaos had arrived, the three stopped fully, standing in quiet reverence before this extraordinary work. The Gates commanded respect, demanded awe—and received both without effort. Even Chaos seemed subdued by the sheer scale of what Bosch had created, the soft whispers of his chains quieting to near silence, as if in deference to the monumental craftsmanship before them.

Lysivelle's voice was barely more than a breath, edged with something like disbelief. "Magnificent," she murmured, eyes wide with wonder. "No matter how long one lives, I doubt this could ever become ordinary."

Chaos stood beside her, unmoving, the light from the gilded gate reflecting faintly in the folds of his shadow-wrapped cloak. The chains around his limbs had fallen utterly silent now—no clink, no weight, no protest. As though even they understood this was not a place for noise.

A silence settled again, not awkward, but complete. Even Otharon did not speak, his eyes tracing the engravings with a gaze that no longer searched for flaws, but only for understanding. The Marshal had been carved by the palace, shaped by discipline and law, and still, in this moment, he was reminded that some forces within these halls answered only to reverence.

Then Chaos moved.

Slowly, with impossible calm, he took a step toward the Gates. His chains slid gently across the floor, leaving no mark. No tension rode his limbs now, no strain in his shoulders. As if the act of opening them was not a task, but a reunion. He placed a single hand against the gate's seam. For a breath, he lingered there, as if reading the engravings by touch. And then, with a motion as fluid as breath itself, he pushed.

The gates moved without sound. Not a groan. Not a creak. Not even the hush of grinding hinges. They parted with the grace of divine will, immense slabs of metal that had turned aside only for gods… now yielded before the Titan as though they had been waiting just for him.

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Light spilled out from the throne hall beyond, not harsh, not bright, but golden and deep. The warmth of it brushed against Lysivelle's skin, and her breath caught, though she did not understand why. Perhaps it was the sudden absence of Chaos beside her. Perhaps it was the presence waiting within.

Chaos did not look back. His voice drifted over one shoulder like a cloak unfurling. "My thanks for the company," he said, without irony. "Both of you."

Lysivelle bowed her head, and for once, her smile was entirely sincere. "It was an honor, Lord Chaos."

Otharon gave only a slight incline of his chin. Begrudging, but not insincere. "Tread well."

The instant Chaos crossed the threshold, the immense Royal Gates swung shut behind him—not with a thud, nor even the whisper of air disturbed by their motion, but in complete, unsettling silence. It was as if they had never opened at all, sealing him neatly away from the golden street and the waiting nobles, placing him alone once more within the embrace of a familiar sanctum.

The chamber before him now was vast and quiet, lit gently from above by unseen sources, bathing everything in a golden half-light that caressed rather than illuminated, lending a strange sense of reverent twilight.

Chaos took several slow, deliberate steps forward, his footsteps nearly as soundless as the gates themselves. Ahead lay two broad stairways, grand and meticulously carved, diverging from a shared landing like the twin halves of a majestic crown. One ascended gracefully into the heights, toward the throne and the King who awaited him. The other descended into shadow, but in the end, both paths led to the same destination.

Flanking the stairways, two figures stood perfectly still, each wrapped in golden armor of exquisite craftsmanship, more art than defense. On the right stood Raphael, First of the Kingsguard, his presence gleaming with quiet majesty. His armor, gold etched with symbols of an ancient tongue, caught the ambient glow, shimmering subtly with every slight movement he made. His cape, transparently white, spilled like liquid silk from his broad shoulders, barely stirring as he inclined his head in acknowledgment of Chaos's arrival.

Next to Raphael stood another knight, Castiel, Second of the Kingsguard, nearly identical yet different enough to be striking. Castiel's helm bore subtle alterations in shape, no less beautiful, yet distinct in its aesthetic. His cape, too, was woven of the same impossibly delicate material, stirring softly despite the utter lack of wind. Castiel stood silent, utterly motionless, his posture carrying an implicit authority that was impossible to overlook, even in the presence of a Titan.

Chaos regarded them both with genuine respect. Though he towered above them in stature, here stood men whose strength and loyalty had never been questioned, whose reputations were forged by deeds rarely witnessed, yet spoken of in awe by those who dared whisper their names. Bowing his hooded head just slightly, Chaos spoke clearly, honoring their stations with meticulous precision.

"Raphael, First of the Kingsguard," he said respectfully. "And Castiel, Second of the Kingsguard. Your presence brings me great joy."

Castiel, always reserved, offered only the faintest nod of recognition—an acknowledgment without warmth, respect without affection, his silence bearing the weight of his discipline and dignity. Raphael, by contrast, lifted his head with genuine delight, shifting comfortably in his ornate armor, his voice ringing out warmly, carrying none of the stiff elegance normally befitting someone of his station.

"Chaos, my old friend!" Raphael greeted him with undisguised cheerfulness, his voice rich, deep, and refreshingly genuine. "You've certainly taken your sweet time showing up again. Thought you'd gotten lost in your own shadows by now."

Chaos felt something approaching amusement stir gently within him, though he kept it carefully hidden. "Some roads are longer than others," he answered dryly.

Raphael laughed openly, unbothered by etiquette or the weight of rank, his joy infectious even within these solemn halls. "Well then, move your ass," he said, waving a gauntleted hand toward the staircase ascending upward. "The King has been waiting, and patience might not be among his virtues today."

Castiel once more inclined his head slightly. Chaos accepted their permission without further delay, stepping past them with quiet dignity, his chains murmuring softly around him as if gently admonishing him for lingering too long.

As he began the ascent toward the King's throne room, Chaos allowed himself a quiet reflection—less of admiration, more of detached curiosity—on the lives these two men led. How relentlessly tedious, he mused, to remain forever bound to the whims and moods of a single man, even if that man was the King himself.

Yet, beneath his detached judgment, there lay a subtle acknowledgement of their strength. The top five members of the Kingsguard were renowned for their power—each surpassing any living Liberator, except the Hopes themselves. Perhaps their pleasure, Chaos considered quietly, came precisely from restraining such immense strength, controlling power that would otherwise devour lesser souls.

Chaos ascended the steps in silence, his movements slow and steady. The echo of his footfalls faded the moment he stepped past the top landing, as if the room beyond devoured all sound not spoken in reverence. Before him opened a vast chamber, impossibly large, ceilingless, or so it seemed—too open to be within the world, too still to be a part of it.

But he didn't have time to observe the architecture.

The instant he passed through the final archway, an unseen veil shimmered across his skin. He had no time to brace, because in the span of a single heartbeat, sight abandoned him. No darkness followed, only blinding, devouring brilliance. A storm of light erupted across every plane of his vision, not with heat or pressure, but with unbearable presence.

This was order made manifest.

Millions of beams, thin and sharp, rained down on him from every direction like celestial spears. There was no escaping it. No resistance. No defiance. Chaos dropped instantly to his knees, his body heavy with something weightier than gravity, heavier than chains, heavier than any emotion a living being could experience.

In a quiet voice, he lowered his head and whispered the only words permitted to him in the presence of what now stood before him:

"My Hope…"

Silence followed, not emptiness, but the kind of silence that held its own gravity, as if the entire palace was pausing, to watch this, and this alone. Then, from somewhere above, though still within the chamber, came a voice.

It was not a sound that echoed, nor one that needed volume to command obedience. Yet it was loud. Loud in the way stars collapse. Loud in the way truths cannot be silenced. A male voice, immense, ancient, without haste or warmth.

"You failed," it said. "That is already known to me. Your mission remains unfinished. So tell me, Chaos… What force cracked your spine and turned a Titan into a coward?"

The question did not accuse. It did not punish. It simply was, as immutable and unflinching as the law of death. A lesser being might have been crushed by the weight of being spoken to in such a way. But Chaos was anything but that.

"Because the reason I failed… My Hope…" he said quietly, "Will be worth more to you than the mission ever was."

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