Chapter 102| The Round Table of Ghosts(First Gift Bonus - )
There was no sky in the space between worlds where the round table waited. No ground, either, not truly — only the suggestion of both, rendered in shifting, silver-grey light that pulsed faintly in time with something none of the eight gathered figures could have named, even if any of them had cared to try.
This table was not carved from stone, nor forged from any material a mortal hand had ever shaped. It predated the Azure Cube by an age so vast that even the concept of the twelve human Arcane Lords, and their comparatively recent, comparatively fragile round table far below, registered here as little more than a passing curiosity — a young world’s young attempt at imitating something considerably older, considerably stranger, and considerably less concerned with the fleeting concerns of mortal power.
Eight chairs stood arranged around this older table, each occupied by a figure whose form flickered at the edges, translucent, present only in the way a reflection is present — real, and yet not truly here at all.
"It has been some time," said the figure seated beneath a sigil of a coiled, endless spiral, voice carrying the particular, weathered patience of someone who measured time in epochs rather than centuries. "Since all eight of us managed to convene at once, I mean. Even in this form."
"Some of us have been considerably occupied," replied a second figure, voice carrying a sharpness that suggested restless energy, though nothing about their flickering, translucent form offered any true confirmation of what, precisely, that energy belonged to. "Sealed away for the better part of a millennium tends to leave one with a certain backlog of business to attend to, once finally freed."
A ripple of something that might have been amusement passed around the table at that, the newest, freshest presence among them — the one whose seat had sat empty for longer than any of the others could properly recall — inclining his head with faint, wry acknowledgment.
"The Emperor of Greed returns to us," said the figure beneath the spiral sigil, "considerably sooner than any of us anticipated, given the strength of the seal that once held him."
"The seal was never as strong as its architects believed," Greed replied, something cold and satisfied threading through his measured tone. "Merely patient. As am I."
"And the world you emerged into?" asked a third voice, quieter, more measured than the others. "What did centuries of confinement teach you about it, upon your return?"
Greed considered the question for a long moment before answering. "Considerably more interesting than the one I was sealed away from," he said finally. "The mortals have grown remarkably resilient, in my absence. One party in particular proved... noteworthy."
"The Veton boy," said the figure at the table’s far end, voice carrying unmistakable, ancient weight. "Yes. We have been monitoring that development as well."
"You’ve spoken to him directly," the spiral-sigil figure said, something sharp and curious entering their tone. "That is not typically how you conduct your observations, Greed."
"He amused me," Greed said simply. "Defiance, this early into direct contact with something of my nature, is rarer than you might expect." He paused. "Whether he proves relevant to what’s coming remains to be seen. I merely thought it worth mentioning."
The table fell briefly quiet, the silver-grey light pulsing steadily around them in patient, indifferent rhythm, before the figure at the table’s head — the one who had spoken first — drew the conversation back toward its original, considerably heavier purpose.
"Regardless of the boy’s relevance," they said, "what we must discuss cannot wait for a more convenient convergence. The Great Becoming approaches."
The silence that followed carried weight enough to feel almost physical, rippling faintly through the space surrounding the ancient table.
"You’re certain," said a fourth voice, tension carefully restrained beneath careful, measured delivery. "The signs are unambiguous?"
"The signs have been building for considerably longer than even our own patience typically allows," the first figure said. "Jenunl Island was merely the most recent, most visible confirmation. A seal failing after centuries of stability, releasing one of our own back into the world below. That is not coincidence. That is acceleration."
"The earth grows ripe for plucking," said a fifth voice, carrying an unsettling, hungry quality that made even the space’s strange, ambient light seem to dim slightly around their seat. "Every dungeon rift, every awakened bloodline, every fractured seal — all of it accelerating the same, inevitable harvest. The Becoming does not arrive gently. It arrives the way ripened fruit finally falls from an overladen branch. Suddenly, and all at once."
"A colorful metaphor," the fourth voice said dryly, "for what remains, even now, a considerably abstract threat to those of us who have not yet witnessed a Becoming firsthand."
"Abstract," the hungry-voiced figure repeated, something almost amused in the single word’s delivery. "Ask the last world we harvested how abstract the Becoming proved, when it finally arrived at its own ripened conclusion."
The mention settled heavily over the assembled table, and for a long moment, none of the eight spoke, the ambient light pulsing steadily around them in slow, patient rhythm.
"There is a second matter," the first figure said finally, breaking the silence with careful, deliberate weight. "One considerably more pressing than even the Becoming’s approach."
"The Founders," said the quiet, measured third voice, something almost reverent, almost fearful, threading beneath the single word.
"The Founders," the first figure confirmed. "Our monitoring suggests movement. Faint, still, and impossible to properly quantify given how thoroughly their current nature has always exceeded even our own considerable understanding. But movement, nonetheless. After eight hundred years of complete, unbroken stillness within the human structure they chose to occupy."
"What could possibly stir them now," asked the fourth voice, unease evident beneath the question’s careful, measured delivery, "when even our own patience has grown so considerable over the intervening centuries?"
"The same forces stirring everything else, I imagine," the first figure said grimly. "The Becoming’s approach. The fractured seals across a dozen worlds, not merely this one. Whatever considerable, accumulating pressure has been building since we first chose to embed four of our own kind within that mortal round table, all those centuries ago, finally reaching the threshold where even they can no longer remain entirely indifferent to what’s coming."
"If they wake fully," the hungry-voiced figure said, quiet greed giving way to something considerably more cautious, "before the Becoming properly concludes—"
"Then everything we have carefully, patiently maintained across the past eight centuries," the first figure finished, "may prove to have been built on considerably less stable ground than any of us have permitted ourselves to believe."
The silence that followed carried the particular, suffocating weight of genuine unease, rare enough among beings of this considerable, ancient power that its presence alone spoke volumes about the gravity of what they were actually discussing.
"Then we have limited time," Greed said finally, voice carrying the same cold, calculating satisfaction he’d worn since first rejoining the table. "To prepare. To understand exactly what the Becoming actually requires from each of us, and to ensure the four sleeping within that mortal structure remain sleeping considerably longer than their own restlessness currently suggests they intend to."
"A reasonable summary," the first figure allowed, something almost approving in the acknowledgment. "We reconvene once the Becoming’s timeline grows clearer. Watch your own domains carefully, in the interim. And Greed—" The figure’s attention settled fully on him, translucent and ancient and unmistakably weighted with significance. "Whatever amusement the Veton boy currently provides you, do not allow it to distract from what actually matters. The Founders waking prematurely would undo considerably more than a single, interesting mortal’s fate."
Greed inclined his head slowly, giving nothing away beyond the barest, cold acknowledgment, and one by one, the eight flickering figures began to fade from their ancient seats, the silver-grey light dimming gradually around the table until only silence, and the distant, patient hum of something vast and inevitable still approaching, remained in the space between worlds.
Far below, in a world entirely unaware of the conversation that had just concluded on its behalf, the sun rose over a modest guild headquarters where five people, bound by love and impossible circumstance, slept soundly through one more ordinary morning — entirely unaware that somewhere far beyond their own considerable trials, something considerably older than every dungeon, every bloodline, and every fractured seal they had ever faced was already, patiently, counting down toward its own inevitable arrival.