Chapter 320: Chapter 319: HIS council
The elder saw everything.
Everything.
Elders were not called elders for a reason, but for a burden. The name was not ceremonial—it was an inheritance, an indictment, a chain of sight that weighed heavier than crowns.
He was glad he saw, though the visions burned behind his eyes like coals that would never cool. He was glad he had stepped down from the Fourth Layer, where the others lounged in chambers, intoxicated by their own echoes of power, comforted by the illusion that ritual and rank were eternal shields.
He had abandoned that place, abandoned the velvet seat carved for him, and come here, where blood still steamed and truth walked unclothed.
Far away from the throne of his lineage. Far away from the easy blindness that tempted the others.
He reminded himself why he was elder—not because of age, not because of robes, not because of scripture. Elders were elders because they bore lineage. Because they were disciples, or disciples-of-disciples, of the Thirteen who once sat at the feet of the Third Guide. Their bones carried whispers of his teachings, marrow steeped in echoes of vision. Their sight was not just mortal sight, nor immortal—it was more.
He had been taught to see. To truly see.
And he did. He saw Atlas.
He saw Atlas burned for the tenth time, his body a blackened pillar, his face hanging toward the abyss like a man who refused to bow even when consumed by fire.
The elder’s own lips trembled when the memory returned, for he had seen kings scream for mercy with less pain than this boy bore without voice. He saw Atlas and Ureil clash on a plane higher than heaven or hell—a realm suspended in-between, where lightning tasted of judgment and silence dripped like molten glass.
The elder stood on the balcony of Galaith’s palace. The stone beneath his sandals hummed faintly with the old wards that bound the place. From here, the city unfurled below him, a labyrinth of spires and canals, fire-banners and prayer-smoke rising like a second sky.
Beyond, he could still glimpse the faint residue of the duel—streaks across the firmament like claw marks carved into heaven itself.
He contemplated.
Always contemplating.
The Fallens have named Atlas their prophet. Foolish creatures, so easily moved by flame and spectacle. But the elder knew the deeper truth. He knew that Atlas was not simply a prophet. He was the echo, the vessel, the avatar of the Guide himself.
He had felt it, heard it—not through rumor or inference, but from the marrow of Atlas’ presence. The essence of the Guide stirred in him. The old words, the old promises, whispered back into existence through his soul.
The elder’s jaw tightened. So I was right. And being right was more terrible than being wrong.
But now? Now the choice had teeth. Atlas had accepted to be a prophet of the Fallen. Not of demons. The boy’s declaration rang still, fresh as iron on the anvil: Protector. Creator. Destroyer. He had accepted—but not on the terms the demons wanted.
The elder’s eyes narrowed. This would not end well with demonfolk. No. It would be tinder to an old fire. The endless war between their kind and the Fallen had already ravaged ages. This would only sharpen it, like salt poured into a wound not yet scarred.
He had walked the old roads of Hell. He had smelled the charred soil where armies fell, tasted the bitterness of blood seeping into the stone for centuries.
He knew Hell’s state—broken, desperate, restless. And war was the one thing Hell could not afford. Not when the gods were playing their own games, steering demigods as pawns across the mortal, immortal, and infernal realms. Not when chaos was their favorite diet.
The elder pressed his knuckles to the balcony rail. "Then there is only one option," he whispered to the roaring silence. His breath came visible in the chill of the upper air. "Unity. Unity among the Fallen and the Demons."
Even saying it felt like blasphemy. The words tasted impossible. A dream forged of ash.
But maybe... maybe he could.
Atlas had said it himself: he would protect, he would create, he would destroy.
The elder’s lips curved upward into a smile, thin and dangerous. Those were not new words. They were the same words once spoken by the Three Empresses—the rulers who had nearly bound all of Hell under one banner before betrayal shattered their reign.
"It is a long shot," he murmured. "To unify Fallen and Demons would mean the unification of Hell itself. It would mean the end of chaos." His breath caught. "And Hell does not like endings."
The thought slithered across him like cold oil. The Empresses did not like endings either. Nor did half the Elders. Some thrived on disorder, feeding on it like carrion birds.
Still, he could not stop the quiet laugh that broke from him, cracked and bitter. "Hahahaha... what are you going to do now, Atlas?"
The words were meant for the sky. But before he could say more, two shadows fell across the balcony. Aurora descended first, light shimmering off her hair as if she carried fragments of dawn with her. Beside her, Azazel landed, his red wings beating once, twice, before folding with the hiss of embers cooling.
"Elder," Azazel said, voice low but firm. "Whatever the Guide wants, we will fulfill."
Aurora rolled her eyes, though her voice carried its own conviction. "Yeah, old hog. He can’t do it alone. Don’t you dare think otherwise."
The elder turned toward them, his gaze lingering on Azazel. Of all beings, he expected Azazel to snarl, to resist, to spit fire at the mere mention of unity. "Why are you so eager to echo my words?" he asked, brow furrowed. "You should be the first to rage. You—of all—have history with them. Blood, hatred, vengeance. Why bow to this talk of unification?"
Azazel’s crimson gaze did not waver. "Because I am beyond what I was before," he said. The words struck with the simplicity of iron. "I told you. Atlas is my way. He is my life now. He is my death."
The elder’s throat worked. Faith. That was the word for it, though the syllables felt frail compared to the depth that flared in Azazel’s eyes.
"Faith," he said softly.
"Yes," Azazel answered, without hesitation. "...Faith."
Aurora snorted. "Faith, huh?" She tilted her head, wings catching the palace torchlight.
"Faith... faith, faith. You old cunts love that word, don’t you?" She leaned in, voice sharpening.
"Fine.....Then hear me out. If you want Atlas to succeed—if you want your so-called unity—then I think I know how we can help him and help you... How we can force the impossible into shape."
The elder arched a brow. "You? The mouth of insolence?"
Aurora grinned. "Exactly. Insolence is what he needs. Not more chains of tradition. Not more books of the damned."
Her laughter rang, reckless as breaking glass.
The three of them began to discuss. First in whispers, then in arguments, then in bursts of laughter that startled even themselves.
They spoke of plans so controversial the air itself seemed to flinch. They carved blueprints of betrayal and salvation in the same breath. They spoke of uniting what had never been united.
The elder found himself smiling more than he had in centuries. He had not smiled this way even when crowned elder. He had not smiled this way since the night the Third Guide’s echo brushed his soul.
Even the gods, if they had ears pressed close enough, might have chosen to close them against such talk.
But the elder, Aurora, and Azazel kept speaking. Speaking as if they held the threads of destiny in their fists and dared to weave them into a banner no one had yet imagined.