The Gardens of Divinity were draped in an otherworldly splendor during this time of year, their usual blossoms of lilies and radiant blooms giving way to a more somber beauty. Flowers native to the Necropolis now flourished, their hues deep and mysterious, painting the gardens with the essence of twilight. Among them, the rare and hauntingly beautiful Azrael’s Kiss took center stage—a flower whose delicate elegance and shadowed allure seemed woven from the fabric of forgotten dreams.
The petals of Azrael’s Kiss were a deep, midnight blue, so dark they nearly melted into blackness, with faint silver streaks tracing through them like threads of starlight across the Necropolis’s ever-dusk skies. Each petal curled inward as though whispering secrets known only to the dead, their edges glowing faintly with an ethereal light that pulsed in time with a distant heartbeat. It was a bloom that seemed alive with its own quiet sorrow, yet graced with an undeniable serenity.
At the heart of the flower rested a cluster of tiny crystalline orbs, each suspended in a delicate embrace, as if frozen in time. These droplets shimmered with silvery mist, gently spiraling upward like the breath of spirits, casting a soft luminescence that captured the essence of both mourning and solace. The stem was slender and dark as polished obsidian, winding in subtle spirals reminiscent of thorns, embodying the fragile balance between life, death, and the rebirth that binds them.
The fragrance of Azrael’s Kiss was a blend of night-blooming jasmine and something intangible, like the scent of a memory lost in the mists of time—a melancholic note that spoke of tranquility tinged with the ache of something just out of reach. This rare flower only revealed its bloom beneath the faintest touch of moonlight, a fleeting bridge between the mortal and divine, and a poignant reminder of the bittersweet nature of endings and the promise of new beginnings.
In Azrael’s absence, these flowers were planted as a silent tribute, a testament that he is neither forgotten nor forsaken. The Tower of the Divine Council is now surrounded by this spectral garden, a place that many of the gods avoid, feeling that such reverence is undeserved. Yet among the divine, Selene remains steadfast, her presence a quiet vigil. Even when her duties are no longer required, she still comes to the council, tending to the flowers with care, as if it were her solemn responsibility to nurture the gardens in Azrael’s stead—a task he himself rarely undertook.
In the soft glow of the garden, beneath a sky perpetually tinged with twilight, the blooms of Azrael’s Kiss stand as silent witnesses to the passage of time, the promise of return, and the delicate dance between what is lost and what may yet be found.
As she entered the Grand Hall, Selene was greeted by the breathtaking expanse of the vaulted ceiling above—a living mural of the cosmos in eternal motion. Stars shimmered and danced across a darkened sky, planets slowly orbited their unseen centers, and nebulae unfurled in wisps of colored light. It was a canvas of the universe itself, a reminder of the endless cycles of creation and decay. Beneath this celestial masterpiece stood a vast crystalline table, surrounded by thrones sculpted to suit the gods who once filled them. Each throne was unique, a reflection of its occupant’s essence, their forms shaped by personal grandeur and divine need.
Moving with quiet grace, Selene passed by the thrones of her peers, pausing only when she reached the seat that had always drawn her attention—Azrael’s throne. Unlike the others, forged from the wills and desires of their makers, Azrael’s was a relic inherited from those who came before him. It loomed with an austere elegance, carved from smooth, shadowy stone veined with faintly glowing runes. The dark stone drank in the ambient light, creating an aura of profound stillness and reverence. It was a throne that seemed ill-fitted to the gentle, inquisitive god it belonged to—more a monument to death’s quiet inevitability than a reflection of Azrael’s contemplative nature.
Selene’s gaze drifted across the other empty seats, her heart heavy with memories from a time long past. She could almost hear the echoes of those days—the lively chatter, the clinking of goblets, and the easy banter that once filled this hall with warmth. How Hephaestus and Poseidon would jest with one another, their brotherly rivalry sparking laughter that reverberated through the very stones. But now those bonds had frayed, and the joyous gatherings had turned to ghostly recollections. Even the gods, with all their power, could not halt the relentless march of time. Selene knew this truth well, and yet the ache of nostalgia lingered, a bittersweet whisper in the quietness of the hall.
Her eyes returned to Azrael’s throne, the faint glow of the runes casting soft shadows on the cold stone. She could not help but wonder if such solemnity had ever truly suited him—Azrael, who sought knowledge in the smallest of things and pondered the mysteries of mortals with more curiosity than judgment. The room, once vibrant with life, now felt like a mausoleum, a place where memories hung like dust in the still air.
But Selene had no time for wistful longing. She knew that dwelling on what was lost served no purpose, not in a world where the future pressed ever onward. Yet, even as she steeled herself against the pull of sentimentality, she allowed herself this brief indulgence—a moment to remember what had been, before stepping back into the unyielding flow of time.
As Selene turned to leave the chamber, the grand doors swung open with a sudden force, revealing Hephaestus in all his fiery splendor. His skin was marred by glowing cracks, the molten light beneath them pulsing like the heart of a volcano, and his hair flickered with the restless flame that was his essence. Yet, despite the fire that roared within him, his eyes lacked the fierce ember gaze they once held. Both gods halted, narrowly avoiding a collision, each momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. Selene’s thoughts raced—what was Hephaestus doing here? He was not one to appear without purpose, and his presence piqued her curiosity.
“Lord Hephaestus!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with genuine surprise as she took a step back. “What brings you here?”
Hephaestus blinked, as if roused from some distant reverie. The embers in his eyes reignited, smoldering with renewed intensity as he met her gaze with a hint of confusion—though it wasn’t the sort that implied lost thoughts, but rather a shared bewilderment. “I could ask you the same question!” he retorted, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder.
“Don’t pretend to be a fool; it doesn’t suit you,” Selene replied with a soft laugh, her voice light as moonlight on water. She turned and moved back to her throne, gracefully settling onto it while gesturing for Hephaestus to do the same. After all, he had already ventured far from his fiery realm to be here.
“You think I’m a fool?” Hephaestus teased in return, his laughter rolling out like the warm hum of a blazing forge. He took his place on his own throne, a seat of blackened iron and glowing embers that crackled softly beneath his weight. Silence hung between them for a breath, a quiet tension as they both found their gazes wandering—inevitably—to the empty throne of Azrael.
“How do you think he’s faring with the mortals?” Selene asked, her voice more curious than concerned, catching Hephaestus once more glancing at that vacant seat.
“He’s a fool,” Hephaestus grumbled, his tone dismissive, though there was an underlying note of something more—perhaps frustration, perhaps envy. “What does it matter? Mortals are fleeting, like sparks from the forge. They come, they burn out, and you never see them again.”
Selene’s eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “And yet, you’ve had your share of champions among them.”
Hephaestus huffed, leaning back in his seat, a flicker of disdain crossing his features. “There are none left who interest me,” he replied with finality, the embers in his gaze cooling. “Mortals don’t hold the same fire they once did.”
The air between them grew still, tinged with the weight of unspoken thoughts. The cosmos above continued its silent dance across the vaulted ceiling, stars drifting lazily through the painted night as gods pondered the trivialities and mysteries of those below. Despite his harsh words, there was something in Hephaestus’s tone—a flicker of grudging respect, buried beneath layers of indifference. Perhaps even he could not fully dismiss the quiet intrigue that mortals had on a being as eternal as himself.
“He planted those cursed flowers in the gardens,” Hephaestus grumbled, crossing his arms, the cracks in his skin glowing hotter with his irritation.
“Of course he did,” Selene replied with a knowing smile, her tone gentle, almost amused. “He’s fond of him, after all.”
“Fond of him?” Hephaestus scoffed, the embers in his eyes flaring briefly. “He only allowed him to descend because he thought it would be entertaining, not out of any fondness.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Isn’t that the same reason he allowed you to meddle with mortals?” Selene’s voice was soft, but the words carried the weight of truth.
Hephaestus opened his mouth to retort, but found himself at a loss. He clamped his jaw shut, huffing in frustration, though he couldn’t keep his gaze from drifting once more toward Azrael’s empty throne. Despite himself, the cold stone and flickering runes seemed to tug at him, a reminder of something long unspoken.
“Miss him?” Selene’s question was a whisper, her voice barely disturbing the quiet air between them.
“What?!” Hephaestus barked, his fiery nature momentarily getting the better of him.
“It’s alright,” Selene murmured, her eyes soft and understanding. “I have no intention of revealing it to anyone. I do as well.”
“I do not miss him,” Hephaestus growled, though the heat in his words had faded to embers, the denial ringing hollow even to his own ears.
“Of course, Lord Hephaestus,” Selene replied, her voice carrying a lilt of gentle acceptance, as if acknowledging a truth both of them knew, but neither would dare admit aloud.
The silence settled once more, but this time it carried a different weight—one of shared memories and lingering shadows. The distant light of stars continued to swirl overhead, painting the cosmos with the steady rhythm of eternity. And as Hephaestus brooded, his gaze, no longer defiant, returned to the empty throne that seemed to echo with absence. In that silence, Selene could almost hear the faint, ghostly echoes of a time when the hall was full, when gods still dared to laugh together, and when Azrael’s presence was simply a part of their world.
But those days had passed, and even the gods could not hold back the tide of change. They could only sit in this quiet, watchful hall, waiting for what might come next—wondering, in the private corners of their hearts, if things would ever truly be the same again.
Selene paid no mind to Hephaestus as her gaze lingered on Azrael’s throne, the faintly glowing runes whispering of a presence that had never truly faded. The shadows in the stone seemed to pulse with the memories of those who once sat there—Azrael and the god before him—both tethered to this place in ways neither might wish to acknowledge. As she traced the intricate patterns etched into the dark stone, she caught a movement at the edge of her vision: Hephaestus, resting his head wearily on the crystalline table, his fiery vigor momentarily dulled.
“Is something troubling you?” she asked, her voice soft, yet tinged with curiosity.
“No,” he murmured, though the words carried the weight of reflection. “I just… remembered his predecessor.”
Selene remained silent, the air thick with unspoken thoughts—worries and memories they both shared, yet could not voice, not in this hall and not within the sanctity of their own realms. Some truths were too delicate, too intertwined with the past to be spoken aloud.
“What brought him to mind?” she inquired after a pause, her tone cautious, as though fearing to stir shadows best left undisturbed.
Hephaestus stared at the throne, his eyes flickering like dim embers. “I begged Azrael not to tear it down,” he finally said. “I don’t think he wanted to, either, but…”
“I see,” Selene exhaled softly, leaning back in her seat. “It was the only thing left of him, wasn’t it?”
Hephaestus nodded, a slow, heavy gesture. “Do you remember the last meeting before… before everything changed?”
It was rare to see Hephaestus in such a state, his usually fierce presence tempered into something quieter, more contemplative. The god who usually burned with the wild, untamed energy of a forge now resembled a dying campfire—warm, yet subdued, a reflection of past flames.
“Of course,” Selene replied, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “You were late, and he couldn’t resist pranking you for it.”
“Drenched my throne with Poseidon’s water,” Hephaestus chuckled, the sound tinged with a mix of fondness and melancholy.
The memory lingered between them, a faint echo of a time when the hall was filled with laughter and mischief. The image of the old council gathering, full of life and camaraderie, flickered in their minds like the fading embers of a once-roaring flame. But time, relentless and unforgiving, had carried those days away, leaving only traces—a throne etched with runes, a shared glance, and memories that clung to them like shadows.
The Grand Hall, with its swirling cosmos and solemn silence, felt like a monument to those lost moments—a place where gods, despite all their power, could do nothing but remember.
“Do you…” Selene began, her voice gentle yet laden with the weight of unspoken tension. She chose her next words with care. “Do you blame Azrael for what he did?”
For a moment, it was as if something snapped within Hephaestus. She watched as his gaze swung toward her, fiery and unbridled, the full force of his inner flame flaring to life. The raw emotion in his eyes was a blaze that no mortal or god could ever hope to tame—a storm of fire and fury. But Selene did not flinch. Her gaze remained steady, meeting his with the quiet strength of a moonlit night, unwavering in its calm. It was as though they were two forces of nature locked in a moment of confrontation—fire and moonlight, clashing yet holding one another in place.
“What kind of question is that?!” Hephaestus roared, his voice rumbling like an earthquake as he straightened to his full height. “Of course I blame him—”
“Why?” Selene’s voice cut through his fury, calm but edged with a sharpness that demanded clarity.
“What do you mean why?!” The flames within him flared brighter, casting flickering shadows across the room. “He didn’t have to do what he did! He could’ve worked with him!” His voice echoed through the hall like thunder in a cavern. “He could’ve asked me for help! I knew him better than anyone, and yet he put him down like a dog!”
“You saw what he became,” Selene countered, her tone growing firmer. “If the same thing had happened again, you would’ve done the same.”
“No, I wouldn’t!” Hephaestus snapped, the fire in his eyes blazing with defiance. “I would’ve found a way to sway him!”
“Oh? And how?” Selene pressed, her words carrying both challenge and compassion.
For a moment, Hephaestus faltered. “I don’t know… but I would’ve found a way!” The conviction in his voice wavered, cracks forming in his resolve.
“Do you truly believe that if Azrael hadn’t intervened, Necropolis would still stand?” Selene’s voice softened, though it carried the weight of hard truth. “The entire system would have crumbled into ruin, and not just Necropolis. The consequences would have rippled through all realms, affecting us as well.”
“Who gives a damn about—” Hephaestus began, but the words died on his lips as Selene’s gaze sharpened, her silvery eyes glowing with fierce determination.
“I do,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “Imagine a world where no souls are being guided, where the cycle of rebirth is shattered. What do you think would happen then?”
Hephaestus stammered, his defiance dimming, “I—”
“Necropolis would have been the first to fall, and then Elysium would follow,” Selene pressed on, her voice resonating with the gravity of her words. “You know this better than anyone.”
The fire in Hephaestus flickered, not extinguished but subdued, caught between the weight of his grief and the cold reality of what had been necessary. For a moment, the Grand Hall felt as though it stood on the edge of two worlds—one defined by loss and regret, the other by the painful necessity of sacrifice. The stars above continued their eternal dance, indifferent to the struggles below, as Selene and Hephaestus faced the truth they both knew but rarely dared to confront.
In the silence that followed, the embers of Hephaestus’s anger cooled, leaving only the quiet ache of what might have been. Selene did not press further, allowing the silence to settle between them—a shared acknowledgment of the burdens they all carried. The empty throne of Azrael stood witness to their exchange, its runes glowing faintly, as if echoing the unspoken grief and acceptance that lingered in the hall.
“I loved him, more than anything,” Selene whispered, her arms folding around herself as if to shield against the flood of memories. Her eyes flicked to the throne, where shadows clung to the smooth stone, its runes pulsing faintly, mirroring the ache in her heart. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with the weight of loss. “I wanted to spend eternity with him. Do you know how it feels to watch the man you love turn into a monster before your very eyes?” Her voice trembled with both pain and defiance. “You know that pain well—you had Icarian.”
“Don’t bring his name into this!” Hephaestus’s voice flared like a forge set ablaze, the fire in his eyes rekindling. “He was nothing like him!”
“Don’t be a fool, Hephaestus,” Selene repeated with a cool firmness. “You never were any good at it.” She paused, allowing the sting of her words to settle. “Azrael wasn’t meant to ascend. He was a nobody. But what he did—during that time and afterward—proved he was worthy. You know that, even if you won’t admit it.”
“I can’t,” Hephaestus murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of a truth he couldn’t bear to accept. “There’s nothing left of him.”
“Necropolis still holds the old name, the throne still stands,” Selene pressed gently, her gaze never leaving his.
“But it’s not the same,” Hephaestus whispered, the embers in his voice dimming. “The head that wears the crown is different. Everything changes when the heart of a realm shifts.”
The silence that followed hung heavy, thick with the sorrow and bitterness of gods who had lived too long, seen too much, and lost more than they could ever reclaim. The runes on Azrael’s throne flickered softly, as if echoing the grief embedded in their words. Selene’s gaze softened, her usual sharpness giving way to an understanding that ran deep—a shared wound only they could truly know. She couldn’t argue with Hephaestus, not entirely. He was right—the head of a realm changes everything, and no amount of hope could bring back what was lost.
“I’ve lingered here too long,” Hephaestus said abruptly, rising from his throne with a resolute heaviness. He turned toward the doors, his fiery presence casting long shadows that stretched across the hall. Pausing, he spoke over his shoulder, his voice laced with a bitterness that clung like ash. “Your Azrael… he’d better return once his little adventure ends.” His words struck like a curse, lingering in the air as he pushed the doors open and departed, the heavy thud of them closing reverberating through the chamber.
Left alone in the echoing stillness, Selene’s gaze returned to the throne, her thoughts spiraling back through the years to a time when everything was simpler, when laughter had filled this hall. The shadows deepened as twilight stole across the room, and she found herself murmuring, as if the words had a will of their own, “You have caused so much. What led you so far astray, Nerovivo?”
The name hung in the air, ancient and weighty, whispered to the empty throne as if the stone itself held the answer. But the only response was the faint shimmer of the runes, a subtle pulse that faded into silence, leaving Selene alone with her memories, the past a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.