Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 34

Chapter 34: The Last Banquet II

The assembly continued.

A hush fell over the grand chamber as if the very air had drawn in a breath and dared not release it. Along the towering obsidian pillars, ember lanterns burned low, their wavering light painting restless specters upon the engraved walls—each etching a silent testament to history, both preserved and lost. Shadows stretched long and uncertain, as if they too awaited what was to come.

Above, the vaulted ceiling expanded into a celestial lattice, an intricate web of gold and sapphire threads that shimmered faintly, shifting ever so slightly in response to the tension below. It was as though the very weave of the world was tightening, bracing itself for the revelation soon to be spoken into existence.

Beyond the chamber’s grand hall, in a secluded sanctum veiled by twilight silk, the witnesses, seers, and scribes gathered. Here, among cold stone and lingering incense, the air carried the weight of whispered prophecies and unspoken dread.

“Movements stir beyond our sight,” one voice murmured, old and worn like parchment crumbling at the edges. His words fell into the silence like stones into a still lake.

“Unseen threads shift where none should weave.”

The Senior Seers, veiled in layers of midnight cloth embroidered with cosmic script, stood further beyond.

Their eyes, clouded with the weight of divination, did not see as mortals did—they peered through the fractures of time, gazing into the shifting loom of fate.

They had spent days in attunement, bodies still, minds adrift, sifting through unseen currents. They had traced the ripples of something neither past nor future could claim.

One by one, they confirmed what the guards had felt.

“It is neither a breach nor a disturbance,” a seer murmured, her voice no louder than the dying embers of a candle. “Yet it moves.”

“A presence without presence,” another echoed, fingers trembling against the unseen threads of reality.

Something had stirred. Something that should not be.

The murmurs spread, threading through the chamber like an impending storm. The unknown loomed vast and formless.

And then, from the far end of the hall, the Scribes began their work.

Behind the grand chamber, beyond the gaze of the gathered assembly, the Record Scribes stood before the monolithic Record Stone—a colossal relic, its polished surface older than memory, inscribed with the weight of centuries. It pulsed faintly, a deep, resonant hum echoing through the chamber, as if it, too, bore witness.

Inkless quills hovered in the air, moving of their own accord, gliding across the stone’s surface.

Runes of remembrance coiled into existence, curling and weaving like a living script, binding the spoken truths into eternity. The ancient language shimmered as it was inscribed, shifting with each recorded breath, a testament to the moment unfolding.

At the heart of the grand chamber, beneath the looming presence of the celestial dome, the Grand Matriarch and the Elders took their place. They stood as pillars of unwavering presence, their robes heavy with the weight of authority and time.

The gathered assembly watched in patient anticipation. Waiting. Watching. Holding on to the moment before history took form.

Then the head scribe moved.

From the depths of the chamber, a lone figure stepped forward. Their ceremonial robes, woven with the ink of histories long past, glistened in the dim light—black as starless voids, yet laced with silver threads that glowed like constellations frozen mid-motion. Their very presence silenced even the most restless heart.

For they did not merely write history. They bound it.

Each step along the sacred path was deliberate, each footfall pressing into the weight of the moment, threading its presence into the weave of time. Before the Matriarch, before the Elders, before the expectant Assembly, they descended onto one knee, fingertips grazing the cold, polished floor in reverence.

The chamber held its breath.

And then, in a voice that carried the weight of centuries, the head scribe spoke.

“This is the recorded report from various leaders of our Seers and Guards.”

Their hands unfurled from the folds of their robe, revealing the relic cradled within their palms—a vessel not of mere knowledge, but of sealed memory, of immutable truth woven into form.

A sphere no larger than a clenched fist. Yet within it lay the weight of revelation.

The Orbic Records.

Its surface was smooth to an obsidian sheen, yet within its depths, fragments of woven reality shimmered, shifting like echoes trapped between past and present. Golden runic weavings pulsed across its form, glowing veins of molten script that pulsed in rhythm with an unseen force.

And around it, multiple orbital belts floated in perfect synchrony, moving neither hurriedly nor still—a slow revolution around an unseen core. Their motion was meticulous and deliberate, a celestial dance mimicking the movement of great cosmic wheels.

The relic thrummed, faintly alive, whispering to those attuned to its craft. Not merely an artifact of record keeping, but a living weave of moments captured—unaltered, untainted.

The chamber exhaled as one. The moment had arrived.

And with it, a singular question coiled into the silence, unspoken yet deafening: What had been woven into the world?

A figure in deep cerulean robes stepped forward—the Lead Steward, Bulaw. His presence carried the quiet weight of duty, his movements precise, honed by years of ritual and practice. As he neared the kneeling scribe, he extended his hands, palms open and steady.

The Head Scribe, Silaw, did not hesitate. With a reverence born from understanding the weight of history, he raised the Orbic Records and placed it gently into Bulaw’s waiting hands. The relic, though small, felt heavier than stone, as if the knowledge sealed within it pressed against the very fabric of the present.

A moment passed.

Silaw, having completed his task, stood. His robes, dark as ink upon ancient parchment, caught the dim ember light as he bowed low before the Matriarch and the gathered Elders.

Grand Matriarch Iskayna inclined her head. The simple gesture, though slight, carried the authority of a thousand years of lineage. Her voice, rich with the tempered steel of wisdom, rose through the stillness.

“Your service is marked and honored, Silaw.”

The head scribe, ever composed, merely nodded before retreating to his post among the other scribes, his steps soundless against the polished stone.

The chamber held its breath, waiting.

Iskayna exhaled softly, then turned to Bulaw. With a graceful yet unyielding motion, she gestured towards the center of the hall.

“Place the Orbic Records within the Threads of Reticence.”

At her words, a low hum resonated through the chamber—a murmur of anticipation.

Bulaw obeyed without question, his grip steady as he carried the artifact toward the heart of the chamber. Before him, rising like an unshaken pillar among the gathered assembly, stood the Threads of Reticence—a mechanism unlike any other.

At first glance, it appeared almost simple, no more than a five-foot stand forged from an alloy as dark as the abyss between stars. But above it, suspended in the air like an ever-turning loom, multiple threads swirled in ceaseless motion—cosmic filaments of liquid starlight, twisting and weaving through one another with hypnotic grace.

These were no ordinary threads.

They were ancient strands of remembrance, spun from the very essence of time’s passage. They shimmered as they moved, shifting between hues of deep sapphire, argent silver, and the faintest glow of amber gold—colors that pulsed in rhythm with the relics they unveiled.

As Bulaw approached, the chamber seemed to dim. The moment thickened, reality itself bending as if drawn toward the artifact about to be unveiled. The Threads of Reticence awaited their offering.

Bulaw inhaled deeply, then raised the Orbic Records high.

A subtle vibration rippled through the air, almost imperceptible, as the threads above the stand reacted, their movements quickening, sensing the presence of something worthy.

The Assembly tensed.

With deliberate care, Bulaw placed the Orbic Records upon the stand.

And then—the threads converged.

Like celestial rivers meeting at the heart of creation, the filaments twisted around the relic, binding it in strands of shifting light. The Orbic Records trembled once, then began to spin, its golden runes flickering in recognition.

A whisper—not spoken, but felt—echoed through the chamber.

The past was about to be unveiled.

The Weaving of Truth was about to begin.

The moment the Orbic Records touched the heart of the Threads of Reticence, the chamber shifted—not in sight or sound, but in the very essence of reality itself.

The air thickened, vibrating with an unseen cadence, as if existence had momentarily forgotten how to be still. The spiraling filaments of the Reticence, once idly twisting in celestial patterns, stilled—only for their motions to resume with an eerie, deliberate precision.

Something ancient had awoken.

A hush gripped the assembly.

Then—the revelations.

The Orbic Records trembled, its surface rippling as if resisting an unseen force. Then it fractured.

Not shattered. Not broken. But unwoven.

Like petals parting from a celestial bloom, luminous fragments of the relic drifted outward, each one inscribed with glimmering runes that pulsed with quiet life. The shattered pieces did not fall, nor did they fade—they hovered, suspended in a silent dance, drawn inward by the very threads of reticence they had been placed upon.

Then came the light.

A slow, inexorable eruption—not of sound, but of sheer presence.

The glow did not burst forth in violent luminance but bloomed, spilling across the chamber like ink unraveling in water. It did not burn, nor did it blind. Instead, it consumed.

It was weightless yet crushing, ethereal yet tangible.

As it touched flesh, it did not merely illuminate—it seeped inward, flowing through the skin, sinking into the marrow, threading itself into the very essence of those present.

Breath hitched.

Lungs expanded, but the air did not follow.

And then—

The world shifted.

Not as an explosion. Not as an abrupt disintegration.

But as a thread slipping from the loom of the present, guiding them elsewhere.

Their senses stretched beyond comprehension, bodies drifting between existence and memory, between presence and detachment. The chamber was still there—and yet it was not.

This was more than real. They were not merely seeing. They were within it.

Suspended in a sky untouched by time, they floated as unseen witnesses to a world long past—or perhaps, a world that had yet to fully become. The land sprawled beneath them, vast and unspoiled, carved with rivers that shimmered like liquid silver, cities standing proud beneath the embrace of an eternal sun.

They could feel it.

The weight of the wind, the heat rising from the stone, the distant tremor of footsteps against the earth.

But they were not truly there.

Their hands did not move.

Their voices did not rise.

They were specters, bound to the currents of time, unable to interfere, unable to alter. And yet, the air pressed against their skin.

The ground, though untouchable, still seemed to pull at them, as if it demanded acknowledgment.

This was no mere recollection.

This was a woven truth.

A record of the past.

And as the events of earlier began to unfold before them, the weight of undeniable revelation settled upon them.

A rush. A pull. A spiral into something unfathomable.

Time, space, and perception collapsed inward—not violently, but unstoppably. The vastness of the world blurred, cascading into streams of motion too quick to grasp. Yet their minds—threaded to the experience, bound to the unraveling truth—absorbed every fragment, every movement, as if seared into their very being.

The scene held still intact within the temporal weave of the Tala Territory.

But then—a bang.

The force tore through the silence, a rupture from the east wing of the Central Castle.

The ground trembled beneath unseen feet. Guards, spectral in their urgency, surged toward the disturbance.

And then—a shift.

The world pivoted, and their sight was pulled inward. Their vision rushed into the heart of the Central Castle, slipping between walls like whispers through stone until they stood—weightless and voiceless—inside.

There, in the grand hall, three figures stood in stark confrontation.

Sionan. Dasig. Leon.

The air curled with quiet hostility, thick with an unspoken history that pressed against unseen ears.

Sionan’s stance was unwavering, his presence sharp as an unsheathed blade. A smirk curled at his lips, not of amusement but of disdain.

His voice—a blade of condescension—echoed through the chamber.

Belittling. Dismissive. His words were carved into Dasig and Leon like silent wounds.

But the past did not wait.

The unraveling continued.

The tension snapped like a taut thread, and in an instant, the heavens fell.

Meteoric dust—brilliant, blinding, merciless—rained down in torrents.

A storm of cosmic ruin. A downfall is written in fire.

Dasig and Leon moved—but too late.

The guards arrived, their steps hurried, drawn by the tremors of calamity. But as they neared—

The world screamed.

A soundless roar.

A force unlike any they had ever witnessed.

The very bones of the earth cracked, veins of the deep abyss splitting through the marble floors.

And then—

An eye.

Not one of man, nor beast, nor god.

A singular, unblinking force that loomed above—a celestial watcher, vast and terrible.

And Sionan was seized.

Not by mortal hands. Not by any force born of this world.

But by something greater. Something ancient.

Something that judged.

He fought, his body contorted in defiance, but his resistance was meaningless.

The cosmic being rendered a verdict.

And then—he was slain.

Unwoven from existence.

And then—darkness.

The weight was lifted.

The Threads of Reticence shuddered—then unwoven.

The light fractured, dimming into a distant glow, and reality snapped back into place. They awoke.

Breathless. Stricken. The chamber once more held them unchanged—yet they had changed.

The Orbic Records remained suspended, drifting weightlessly, its purpose now fulfilled.