A GOD'S WAY OF JUDGEMENT

25- Trial

The invitations arrived without warning, descending upon gods across every corner of existence—through light, shadow, thought, and dream. Even those who dwelled in the farthest reaches of the cosmos were summoned with the same message:

Gather at the Hall of Eternal Judgment. A verdict will be passed by Ronan Arcanveil.

It was an unusual summons. A murder trial—trivial in the cosmic scheme of things—had pulled gods from every pantheon and realm. This was not a normal summons.

The gods arrived curious, uneasy. They were beings accustomed to endless battles, world-building, and millennia of feasts and rivalries. Life and death were natural, cycles they rarely interrupted unless it concerned a cosmic disturbance.

Yet here they were—every deity, no exceptions. And seated upon the Throne of Heaven, above all others, was the most revered among them. Cyrus Arcanveil.

The Hall of Eternal Judgment

The Hall was a marvel, a structure worthy of its divine occupants. The ceiling stretched beyond sight, filled with clusters of newborn stars, swirling nebulae, and collapsing suns—timeless and infinite. The walls shimmered with cosmic dust and shifting patterns of reality, as if the very essence of creation wove through the stone. Pillars of living flame and water spiraled upward, shifting between forms that defied mortal comprehension.

The seating tiers were arranged in vast rings—rows of radiant thrones, each one sculpted to reflect the domain of its occupant. Some thrones gleamed with celestial brilliance, while others bled shadows, serpentine and twisting, into the hall's floor.

At the heart of the court sat three monumental seats.

The Throne of Heaven, a blinding marvel of golden radiance, shimmered with divine authority. It was a symbol of absolute power over creation—an impossibly intricate sculpture depicting moments of life blooming across countless worlds. The Throne of Hell, a thing of obsidian fury and molten flame, pulsed with dark, brooding energy. Smoke curled from its jagged edges, whispering promises of destruction and temptation. The Judge's Throne—a masterpiece formed from stardust and primordial stone—remained empty. It waited for its master, Ronan Arcanveil, to pass judgment.

The gods filled their seats, each arrival more spectacular than the last.

The War God clanked into place, his jagged iron throne bearing the dents of ancient battles. The Goddess of Nature, her throne a living garden, spread fragrant blossoms and curling vines across the surrounding seats. The God of Knowledge hovered on a chair made of ancient scrolls, his gaze distant, as if already calculating the implications of this trial.

Seated above them all, Cyrus Arcanveil—Lord of Heaven, Master of Life, and King of Kings—observed the proceedings in silence. His golden eyes radiated calm authority, and the power within him was unmistakable. To merely look upon Cyrus was to witness the origin of all order and creation.

His throne—more radiant than the sun—seemed alive, humming with celestial energy. His every movement, no matter how slight, sent ripples of divine intent through the hall.

When Aurelion, the Radiant God of the Day, bowed respectfully before taking his seat, it was not to the other gods—it was to Cyrus. The gods might have gathered for Ronan's judgment, but Cyrus's presence alone demanded reverence.

Valefor, Lord of Hell, lounged lazily across his own throne of shadows. He watched the proceedings with an amused grin, but even his gaze flicked warily toward Cyrus from time to time. There was no throne higher than Cyrus's. There never would be.