You've entered a place where every choice matters, and every decision carries consequences you can't yet fathom.

In this world, nothing is as simple as it seems, and the weight of each prayer, each wish, is felt across the very fabric of existence.

New chapters every 2-3 days—though time here doesn't always follow our rules. But rest assured, the judgment is inevitable.

I can't wait to hear your thoughts on the journey ahead. Your comments are a guiding light, and I read every single one.

Trust nothing. Stay alert. The truth is far more dangerous than you think...

And fate is never kind.

Godborne: Human Consequences; Book Cover [https://img.wattpad.com/d736d3c9cdb1b5dc8255e4f00d842dfeeca84eb2/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f456d7045395551653658563977673d3d2d313531363938373339322e313832343366316666303536363335363230323933343839373039352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

The Throne of Judgment

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Silence.

It stretched across the vast expanse of the Heavenly Palace, an infinite stillness that had no beginning and no end. No breath disturbed the air, no whisper broke the hush, no sound echoed through the divine halls.

Here, time did not pass as it did in the mortal world. There were no ticking clocks, no shifting shadows, no sunrises or sunsets—only the eternal presence of Judgment.

And at its very center sat the One Who Judges.

They had no name and no face. No mortal hands to lift. No voice to utter words that need not be spoken. They simply were—an existence of light and will, an entity beyond human comprehension, the absolute and only authority over fate.

The Throne of Judgment stood as it always had, untouched by the erosion of time, unmoved by the weight of the prayers that reached it.

But then—

A single parchment manifested in the air before them.

It pulsed, faint and fragile, with the quiet desperation of the mortal plea it carried. It was no mere ink on paper, no hollow request. The weight of it was immeasurable. The meaning of it—everything.

Beside them stood Sistent, the ever-diligent angel. Her wings, vast and brilliant, remained folded in reverence. Her hands, clasped before her, trembled ever so slightly. But her eyes—when they finally opened—held nothing but solemn duty.

A whisper, soft as the breath of the universe itself:

"A prayer has reached the Throne."

The words floated into the stillness, weaving through the air like threads of gold. And as if the words themselves had willed it into being, the parchment slowly unfolded.

It spoke, not with sound, but with the raw, unfiltered plea of a desperate heart.

"Please, bring my son home to me."

A mother's voice. Soft. Trembling. Raw.

The parchment quivered, infused with something deeper than ink—grief, hope, love, despair.

"It's been seven days. They say the storm took him, but I know he's out there. I know he's waiting, lost, scared. Please... if there is mercy, if there is justice, let him return. Let me hold him again. Let me see him smile, just one more time."

The words did not merely rest upon the parchment. They lived. They breathed. They clung to the very fabric of existence, vibrating through the divine realm like an unspoken scream.

Sistent closed her eyes once more, allowing the weight of the prayer to settle.

Most prayers were ignored.

Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity.

For if every cry of desperation were granted, if every wish were answered, the balance would crumble. The world would drown in miracles, and from them, chaos would be born.

But some prayers—some prayers—

Were heard.

The One Who Judges did not hesitate.

They did not hesitate because they could not.

Because they did not doubt.

Because to hesitate would imply there was a question.

There was no question.

Only Judgment.

And Judgment was passed.

The parchment dissolved into light, its words burning into the very foundation of existence.

And below, in the mortal world, a miracle unfolded.

A Son Returned

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The storm had been merciless. It had raged across the sea like an unchained god, swallowing everything in its path. The fishing boats that had set sail that morning never returned. Only debris, broken wood, and the wreckage of lives lost had washed up on the shores.

Seven days had passed.

Seven days of silence. Seven days of mourning. Seven days of grieving families clutching each other in the dark, whispering names of those they would never see again.

And then, on the morning of the eighth, he returned.

It began with a murmur. A voice—hushed, disbelieving. Then another. And another. The sound spread like ripples on water, a quiet tremor that built upon itself until it became a gasp, a cry, a roar of disbelief.

The villagers had gathered in stunned silence when they saw him.

A boy—the boy—stumbling barefoot from the mist, his clothes torn and wet, his dark hair tangled with sand and salt. His body was bruised, his face hollowed by exhaustion, but he was alive.

He moved like a shadow, slow and uncertain, as if pulled forward by some invisible thread. His eyes—once bright and filled with mischief—were dull, glassy, reflecting the pale morning light like still water.

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He should not have been here.

But he was.

A miracle.

For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved. They simply stared, caught between awe and terror, as though the boy might dissolve before their eyes.

Then—a scream.

Not a scream of fear, but of something greater—a sound torn from the very soul, a cry of disbelief, of love, of hope resurrected from the grave.

"You're home."

The mother broke through the crowd.

Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran, faster than she ever had before, pushing past those who stood frozen in shock. Her breath hitched, her chest tight, her vision blurred with tears.

Her hands trembled as she reached for him, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before wrapping around his thin frame. Solid. Warm. Real.

Her body collapsed against his, arms tightening, as if her embrace alone could anchor him to this world.

"You're home. You're home. Oh, my sweet boy, you're home!"

She sobbed against his shoulder, shaking, her fingers gripping his tattered clothes like she feared he would vanish if she let go.

And for a long, long moment, he did not move.

The villagers, still frozen in their shock, watched a miracle unfold before their eyes.

A son, lost to the sea, returned against all odds. No one questioned how. No one dared to.

The boy blinked, slow and empty, before finally—finally—his arms rose and wrapped around her.

Soft. Weak. But there.

A choked breath left his lips, barely above a whisper.

"...Mama."

The mother sobbed harder.

Somewhere, someone in the crowd gasped. Then, the tension broke.

A miracle.

The whispers turned into cheers, shouts of joy, hands clapping, voices calling out his name in celebration.

The priest knelt, murmuring prayers of thanks. The healer wiped tears from his eyes. Even the hardened fishermen, men who had weathered storms and war, stood in stunned reverence.

The village rejoiced.

The mother took him home, cradling him as though afraid he would vanish. She barely let him out of her grasp, leading him through the streets, pressing kisses to his forehead, whispering prayers of gratitude under her breath.

The house had not changed in his absence. The wooden walls still smelled of herbs and sea salt, the warmth of the fire flickering softly against the dim light of the setting sun. His bed was untouched, blankets neatly folded, waiting.

She fed him, spoonful by spoonful, as if he were a child once more. Warm soup. Soft bread. Honeyed tea. He swallowed each bite in silence, chewing slowly, as if unfamiliar with the motions.

She bathed him, washing away the salt and sand, running fingers through his tangled hair, humming lullabies she had sung to him as a baby. The water ran black with filth, but he did not protest.

She wrapped him in soft linens, tucking him beneath the blankets, pressing her lips to his temple.

"You're safe now," she whispered, her fingers smoothing his damp hair. "Sleep, my love. Sleep, and tomorrow, we will be happy again."

The boy did not respond.

His eyes fluttered shut, his breath soft, his body sinking into the warmth of the bed.

Happiness. Relief. A prayer answered. A wish granted.

The mother sat beside him, stroking his hand, until her own exhaustion took hold and her head slumped against the edge of the mattress.

Outside, the village still whispered his name.

Inside, the fire burned low, casting shadows that flickered and swayed.

And in the Heavenly Palace, all was still.

The One Who Judges did not move. They did not feel.

They simply existed, as they always had.

And yet, something stirred.

A quiet, invisible shift.

Something was... off.

The First Omen

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The boy did not wake.

At first, the mother thought nothing of it.

He had been through so much. The sea had taken him, swallowed him whole, tossed him against the rocks and waves, and yet—he had survived. His body had endured, his spirit had returned.

Of course he was exhausted.

So she let him rest.

She sat by his side, fingers tracing gentle patterns along his arm, humming soft lullabies into the hush of the room. The hearth crackled, casting waves of warmth over his sleeping form. Outside, the village rejoiced, whispers of miracles flitting through the streets like drifting embers.

A prayer answered. A wish granted.

But when the second day came, his body remained still.

The mother frowned. She brushed the hair from his face, her fingers lingering against his cheek. Warm. Soft. Smooth. Just like yesterday.

Exactly like yesterday.

Her unease grew, slow and creeping, but she swallowed it down. He was tired. He had been through something unthinkable. His body needed time to heal.

And yet—when the third day came, he had not moved.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, rhythmic breaths, but he did not stir. Did not shift, did not twitch, did not respond to her voice.

It was unnatural.

The healer was called. Then the priest. Then the elders of the village.

They gathered around his bedside, whispering among themselves, their faces dark with something unspoken.

The healer checked his pulse. His fingers hovered over the boy's wrist, pressing gently against his skin.

Then his brow furrowed.

He pressed again. Harder. His lips parted, as if to speak—but no words came.

The priest stepped forward, murmuring a quiet prayer under his breath. He reached out, tracing a careful symbol upon the boy's forehead.

The moment his fingertips touched skin, a shiver crawled down his spine. He pulled away, eyes narrowing.

The elders did not speak, only exchanged glances.

Concern. Hesitation. Fear.

The healer finally broke the silence. His voice was hushed, as if afraid of the very words he spoke.

"This is not sleep," he said. "This is something else."

The mother's breath hitched.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "He's alive. He's breathing. He just needs time."

But even as she said it, her own voice wavered.

Because something was wrong.

Deeply, horribly wrong.

The priest hesitated, then stepped forward once more.

"Child..." he whispered, leaning close. His fingers trembled as they reached forward, hovering just above the boy's face—before he finally, gently, touched his forehead.

And then—he recoiled.

His entire body jerked back as if burned.

His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his fingers trembling.

He stumbled, nearly knocking over the chair behind him, eyes wide with something not even he could name.

Then he swallowed hard and whispered, voice unsteady—

"This is not your son."

The mother screamed at him. Shoved him away.

"How dare you say that?! He's here! He's—"

But then her voice faltered.

Her hands, trembling, cupped her son's face.

Warm. Too warm.

She swallowed hard, forcing a breath through her teeth. No. It was just her imagination. Just exhaustion. The stress of everything was getting to her.

But then her gaze dropped to his lips.

Parted slightly, as if mid-breath.

Yet there was no dryness. No cracking from dehydration.

Her hands drifted lower, wrapping around his fingers.

Too smooth. Too clean.

There was no dirt beneath his nails. No cuts, no scars, nothing from where the sea should have torn them apart.

Her heart pounded. A cold weight settled in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

She swallowed, then leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, desperate for reassurance.

And then—

She heard nothing.

Not the soft shift of his breath.

Not the faint stir of life beneath his skin.

Not a single heartbeat.

Nothing.

A shudder wracked her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away, willing it to be wrong.

But no matter how hard she listened, how desperately she strained—

There was only silence.

The villagers watched in stunned silence as the truth crept in, slow and merciless.

He was there, and yet...

He was not.

The Wrong Judgment

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In the Heavenly Palace, the air grew heavy.

It was an impossible thing—weight in a realm without form, tension in a place beyond time. And yet, it settled, unseen but undeniable, sinking into the very essence of existence.

Sistent's wings, ever still in duty, gave the faintest of tremors. She did not breathe—she did not need to—but her hands, folded before her in reverence, tightened.

She did not lift her gaze. Did not dare to.

Instead, she whispered—

"Something is wrong."

The words barely carried. They were fragile things, weaker than prayers, but heavier than fate itself.

The One Who Judges did not answer.

Because they could not.

Because now, as the consequences unraveled, as the weight of their decree took form in the mortal world, something that should have been impossible happened—

For the first time, since the beginning of all things, since the first breath of the first life, since the first plea was uttered into the void—

A sliver of doubt touched the Throne of Judgment.

It was not loud. It did not come like a storm or a shattering revelation.

It came quietly.

Like a whisper where no whispers should exist.

Like a shadow in a realm untouched by darkness.

Had they been wrong?

The thought had no place here. No right to exist. Judgment was absolute. Judgment had always been absolute.

And yet—

Had they granted a miracle that should have never been?

Had they bent fate for something undeserving?

Had they brought back something that was never meant to return?

The silence deepened.

The weight grew heavier.

Sistent did not move.

She did not need to.

Because below—in the mortal world—

The truth was already being revealed.

A mother wept.

Not in joy. Not in relief.

But in horror.

Her hands trembled as they reached, fingertips ghosting over warm skin that should have been cold, over breathing lips that never parted for words.

Over a heart that should have been beating.

But was not.

The son she had prayed for had come home.

But what had come home...

Was not her son.