The Ascended — Chapter no 63

Chapter 63

Vanishing

"RISE, ASCENDED," OLINTHAR COMMANDED.

My legs obeyed before my mind caught up. Strange, how the body remembered protocol even when the soul wanted nothing more than to rebel.

The chamber hummed with anticipation, a thousand immortal eyes fixed on us three survivors. I stood on unsteady legs, my newly divine body

still foreign to me.

Too much. It was all too much.

"Step forward," Olinthar directed.

We moved as one, leaving our pedestals to approach the semi-circle of thrones. With each step, I became more aware of the change in myself—my movements too fluid, my balance too perfect, my senses too sharp. This body wasn't mine anymore.

Marx walked beside me, her face impassive, though tiny wisps of smoke still rose from her shoulders, her skin bearing the marks of the divine fire that had nearly consumed her. She had survived, but just barely.

"The domain selection is the final step in your ascension," Olinthar explained, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber. "Each new god must declare their chosen domain of influence."

My heart quickened. This was the moment we'd planned for, the true purpose behind everything we'd endured. Get close to Olinthar. Gain his trust. Strike when he least expected it.

"Marx," Olinthar said, nodding toward her. "You shall be first."

Marx stepped forward, her posture suddenly regal despite the obvious lingering pain of transformation. "I choose Draknavor," she announced, her voice strong and clear. "I shall serve at the side of Morthus in the Domain of Death."

No murmurs at this—it was exactly what everyone expected.

Olinthar nodded. "So be it. Morthus, do you accept this offering to your domain?"

Morthus inclined his head, his face betraying nothing. "I accept."

"Then approach the throne of Death and receive your formal welcome."

Marx moved with newfound grace to stand before Morthus. The God of Death placed a hand on her head, murmuring words too low for even my enhanced hearing to catch. A current of dark energy passed between them, and when Marx turned back to face the assembly, her golden eyes held flecks of deepest black.

"Thatcher Morvaren," Olinthar continued, his attention shifting to my brother. "Make your declaration."

Thatcher stepped forward, his face a perfect mask of respect and humility that I knew was entirely false. "I choose Sundralis," he said, his voice clear and strong. "I shall serve in the domain of Light and Order."

The murmur grew louder. He’d been Chavore’s, after all. But few knew of what Olinthar actually wanted—what his plans were for Thatcher. And even fewer knew that this single decision would lead to the downfall of their King.

But Olinthar smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips that made my skin crawl, even though I’d been bracing for it. "A wise choice," he said. "I accept your service gladly."

Thatcher bowed low, the perfect picture of gratitude and deference.

Only I could see the calculation behind his golden eyes, the cold determination that mirrored my own.

"And finally," Olinthar said, turning his attention to me. It was, perhaps, the first time I’d ever seen his eyes so focused on me and me alone. His face was neutral, absolutely nothing reading in his expression. Gods, I hated him. I wanted to claw his eyes out with my bare hands. "Thais Morvaren."

The chamber fell silent. This was the moment of truth. I glanced at Xül, unable to stop myself. His eyes were guarded, his face carefully blank, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight clench of his fist at his side. He

already knew I would choose this, but it didn’t stop the hurt from bleeding into his eyes.

"I choose Sundralis," I declared, my voice steady despite the unexpected pang in my chest. "I shall serve in the domain of Light and Order."

The murmur became a wave of surprised whispers.

Olinthar's smile widened, and the satisfaction in his eyes made bile rise in my throat. "How… interesting," he said. "The twins united in Sundralis.

How honored our domain should feel. I accept your service, Thais Morvaren."

I bowed my head, not in deference but to hide the hate that I knew would show in my eyes. When I raised it again, I deliberately avoided looking at Xül. I couldn't bear to see whatever might have been written on his face in that moment.

Olinthar beckoned me forward with one perfect hand. I approached his throne, every step heavier than the last. His fingers were cool against my forehead as he spoke the words of claiming, the divine magic of Sundralis washing over me. It felt sick and wrong.

When it was done, I stepped back, feeling somehow tethered to this place now, bound to the very being I had sworn to destroy.

"Let the celebration begin," Olinthar announced, rising from his throne.

"Tonight, we welcome three new Aesymar to the pantheon of Voldaris!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Music swelled from unseen sources, and servants appeared bearing trays laden with food and drink that glowed with divine energy.

Divine beings swarmed around us, their faces blurring together in a sea of perfect features and calculating eyes. Each one wanted something—a moment with the newest gods, a chance to establish connections, to secure future favors. It was overwhelming, the sheer weight of their attention pressing against my newly divine senses.

There are so many of them, I sent to Thatcher through our bond, which hummed stronger than ever after our transformation. How do they expect us to remember all these names?

Just smile and look pretty, he replied, the familiar teasing note in his mental voice steadying me. It's what we're good at.

I fought back a snort, earning curious glances from the minor deities surrounding me. A goddess with flowing silver hair was telling me she was also from Sundralis, but her words slipped past me like water. All I could

focus on was the golden glow that now emanated from Thatcher. He stood ten paces away, already encircled by his own admirers, but our connection remained unbroken.

The crowd shifted, and suddenly he was gone from my view. The press of bodies around me increased as more immortals arrived to offer their congratulations. They touched my shoulders, my hands, praising my strength, my resilience, my beauty—as if they knew anything about me beyond what they'd witnessed in the Trials.

I smiled and nodded, falling back on the manners Xül had so painstakingly drilled into me over the past months. Yes, I was honored. No, the transformation hadn't been too painful. Yes, I looked forward to serving Sundralis. The lies flowed easily.

A cool presence materialized behind me, familiar fingers brushing the small of my back. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. My body recognized him instantly, responding with a warmth that spread up my spine.

"Golden eyes suit you, starling," Xül murmured, his breath ghosting against my ear.

I shivered. When I turned to face him, his expression was guarded, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Now I'm off to have some difficult conversations," he said, gaze drifting across the crowd.

My heart swelled. He was really going to do it. I squeezed his hand, the act hidden from view by the press of bodies around us. "Good luck."

His eyes returned to mine, lingering, then dropped briefly to my lips. A promise for later. Then he was gone, moving through the crowd with predatory grace.

I scanned the room for Thatcher, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Let me know if you need an out, I sent through the bond.

Noted. Same goes for you.

Another face caught my attention ahead—Marx, standing awkwardly at the edges of the celebration, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as several Lightbringers attempted to engage her in conversation.

I made my way toward her, murmuring polite excuses as I extricated myself from my own admirers. Marx's face lit with relief when she saw me approaching.

"Thank the gods," she muttered as I reached her side. "If I had to listen to one more obtuse congratulations, I was going to start cursing people."

"You've been divine for all of an hour, and you're already abusing your power?" I grinned.

"Just planning ahead." She grabbed two glowing goblets from a passing servant, handing one to me. "Might as well."

I took a cautious sip. The liquid warmed me from the inside out.

"Better?" Marx asked.

I snorted. "Come on." I nodded toward a set of glass doors leading to a balcony. "Let's get some air."

We slipped outside, leaving the noise and the press of the celebration behind.

The moment we were alone, I became acutely aware of how careless we'd been before. With my new senses, I could hear conversations from three rooms away—the rustle of fabric, the whisper of breath, heartbeats drumming their private rhythms. If I could hear all this now, what had the Aesymar been privy to during our mortal days?

The thought sent a chill through me. How many secrets had we spilled, thinking ourselves safe in empty rooms?

"So," Marx said, leaning against the balcony rail. "I see you had some revelations since our last conversation."

There was no accusation in her voice, but I felt defensive anyway. I touched her wrist, a silent warning, then leaned close enough that my lips nearly brushed her ear.

"We need to be careful," I breathed, my voice softer than a sigh. Even Marx, standing inches away, had to strain to hear me. "I can hear everything. Which means they always could."

Understanding flickered in her eyes. When she responded, she matched my volume, speaking directly into my ear in return.

"Shit," she whispered.

"Yeah." I kept my voice at that same near-silent level. "We were lucky.

Or maybe they just didn't care enough to listen."

Marx's expression darkened at the implications. We stood in silence for a moment. Then she shifted closer, her voice still at that barely-there whisper.

"Well, they're definitely listening now. Especially after what you just pulled in there." She took another drink from her goblet to cover the

movement of her lips. "Sundralis, Thais? Really?"

“Yeah…” I murmured. “Thatcher—”

"I get it," she continued before I could defend myself. "Family first.

Always has been with you."

"It's not just that." I struggled to articulate the impulse that had driven my choice. "It's… I don't know. Something feels wrong here. Thatcher told me before that there was light everywhere, yet it felt wrong. Now that I’m here, I see what he meant. It’s like it's heavy, pressing down on me."

"I figured it was supposed to be like that."

"Maybe." I stared out at the perfect gardens. "I intend to find out."

Marx nodded, accepting this without question. It was one of the things I'd come to value about her—she didn't need every detail explained, didn't demand justifications for my decisions. She simply trusted that I had my reasons.

"I'm going to miss you," she said suddenly, the words coming out in a

rush.

I turned to her, squinting.

"Don't look so shocked," she muttered. "I'm allowed to have feelings, you know. Occasionally. When no one's looking."

"I'm going to miss you too," I admitted, the truth easier to offer Marx than almost anyone else. "Who else is going to call me on my bullshit?"

"Thatcher?"

"He's too nice."

"Xül, then."

My face burned before I could stop it.

Marx's eyebrows shot up. "New developments?"

"Nothing. Everything." I sighed, staring into my goblet. "I guess he’s

going to call off the wedding."

Marx choked on her drink. "He's what?"

"Yes." The word still didn't feel real, even as I spoke it.

Marx studied my face with new intensity. "That's… big. Like, realm-

shattering big."

"I know."

"Well, fuck." She drained her goblet in one long swallow. "I wonder

how that will affect… things."

A careful response.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

"In a big way, probably," she said. "Just don't forget about me when you're busy being controversial and revolutionary, okay?"

"As if you'd let me."

"Damn right I wouldn't." She bumped her shoulder against mine. "I'll visit. Often. Even if it means putting up with all this blinding light and oppressive perfection."

"I'd like that." The words felt inadequate for what I was trying to express—how much her friendship had come to mean to me.

"Do you ever wonder—" She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Do you ever wonder if we'll forget? What it was like to be mortal? To be afraid? To care about the small things?"

"We won't forget," I said, the words a promise. "Not you and me."

"Bold claim for someone who's been divine for all of an hour." But Marx's smile took the sting from her words.

"We're exceptional, remember? You said so yourself."

"I did, didn't I?" She grinned. "Alright, Morvaren. I'm holding you to that. A thousand years from now, you and me, we’ll meet and compare notes. See if we still remember what matters."

"Deal." I raised my goblet to hers. "Though preferably somewhere

less… Sundralis."

"Draknavor beach at midnight?"

"Perfect."

We drank to seal the pact. As I lowered my goblet, a strange sensation washed over me—a sudden hollowness. The air sucked from my lungs.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the goblet so hard that cracks spider-webbed across its surface.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, catastrophically wrong.

I reached instinctively through my bond with Thatcher—the connection that had been humming in the background of my consciousness since birth, stronger than ever after our transformation.

Nothing.

Just… emptiness. A crater where my twin should have been.

"Thatcher?" I whispered, then pushed harder, hurling my consciousness along our bond with desperate force. Thatcher!

Silence. Not even an echo.

The goblet shattered in my grip, liquid and crystal raining to the floor.

Cold terror seized my chest, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't breathe.

"Thais?" Marx's voice barely penetrated the roaring in my ears. "What's wrong?"

"He's gone," I gasped, my voice cracking. "Thatcher—I can't feel him. I can't feel him anywhere."

"What do you mean?" Marx gripped my arm.

"The twin bond." My words tumbled out, fast and panicked. "There's nothing. Like he's just been… erased."

In an instant, the casual friend vanished, replaced by the warrior I'd fought beside in the Trials. "How long?"

"Just now. It just happened." I was already moving, shoving past her toward the doors. "We need to find him. Now."

We burst back into the celebration, the laughter and music now a sickening backdrop to my terror. I scanned the crowd frantically, pushing divine beings aside without caring about protocol or politics.

"Thatcher!" I called. "Thatcher!"

Nothing. Just curious glances, raised eyebrows, disapproving frowns.

"We need to split up," Marx decided.

I nodded, already moving. "He was talking to a group near the south entrance earlier. I'll start there."

"Thais." She caught my arm, her grip tight. "Could someone have somehow… disabled it?"

"If they did, they're already dead," I whispered, starlight sparking at my fingertips.

We separated, plunging into the crowd in different directions. I pushed through the mass of immortals, my new senses straining for any trace of him. Smell, sight, the feeling of air brushing past my skin—it was all intensified now.

"Have you seen Thatcher Morvaren?" I demanded of anyone who would listen, my voice growing more desperate with each repetition.

Blank stares. Shrugs. Head shakes.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a desperate count of time passing without Thatcher. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The celebration continued around me, oblivious to my growing terror.

I spotted Chavore across the chamber and pushed through the crowd toward him.

"Chavore," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite my rising panic. "Have you seen Thatcher?"

He turned to me, his eyes unfocused and cloudy.

"Thais," he said, my name clearly an effort to recall. "You're…

Thatcher's sister."

"Yes. Have you seen him? I can't find him anywhere."

Chavore's brow furrowed, his expression almost childlike in its confusion. "Thatcher? He was… here. Earlier." He gestured vaguely at the room. "After the ceremony."

"But where is he now?" I pressed, fighting to keep the desperation from my voice.

His eyes drifted away from my face. "I don't… remember." The admission seemed to pain him, a flash of awareness crossing his features.

As I turned to leave, Elysia appeared, sliding her arm through Chavore's.

"There you are, darling," she cooed, though her eyes were cold as they flicked over me. "You wandered off again. Come, everyone is waiting."

She led him away without acknowledging me further, guiding his steps with subtle pressure. I watched them go, a new kind of dread settling in my stomach. What the fuck was wrong with this place?

I started to follow them, but three guards materialized, blocking my path. "Lady Thais," one said, his tone polite but firm. "King Olinthar has asked that all new ascendants remain at the celebration. It's tradition."

"My brother is missing," I spat.

"I'm sure he's simply enjoying the festivities in another part of the palace," the guard replied, his placid smile never wavering. "Perhaps you should rejoin your fellow gods? This is, after all, a celebration in your honor."

The calculated dismissal in his voice made my blood boil. Starlight gathered at my fingertips, instinctive and dangerous. I could incinerate all three of them where they stood. I could tear this palace apart stone by stone until I found Thatcher.

But that wouldn't help him. Not if he was in real danger.

I needed to be smarter than that.

"Fine," I said, forcing my voice to calm. "I'll return to the celebration."

The guards nodded, satisfied, and moved aside. I turned as if to head back to the main hall, but the moment they were out of sight, I ducked down a side corridor. My heart still pounded with fear, but now a cold, calculating rage had settled alongside it.

I rounded a corner, and a flicker of movement caught my eye—a shadow where no shadow should have been, crawling down an empty corridor.

I followed, instinct driving me deeper into the palace, away from the celebration and the guards. The hall grew increasingly quiet. Increasingly still.

And then I felt it—a faint, thread-thin pulse of energy. Not our bond, not exactly, but something unmistakably Thatcher. It vanished almost instantly, but it had been there. A trace. A trail.

I raced forward, my senses straining for another glimpse of him—of anything.

And then I saw it—a gleam of gold on the floor ahead. I dropped to my knees, snatching it up with trembling fingers.

Thatcher's ceremonial pin. The symbol of Sundralis.

He had been here. Recently.

"Thatcher!" I called, both aloud and through our silent bond.

"Thatcher!"

Nothing. But the pin was warm in my palm, still carrying traces of his energy. I pressed it to my chest, using it to focus my senses, to search for

any hint of where he might have gone.

There—ahead. A tapestry on the wall.

But it wasn't the image that drew me. It was what lay behind it—a current of air where there should have been none, carrying the faintest trace of Thatcher's scent.

I lunged forward, yanking the tapestry aside to reveal a narrow passageway carved into the stone wall, descending into darkness. Without hesitation, I plunged in, one hand summoning starlight to illuminate the way, the other clutching Thatcher's pin like a lifeline.

The passage twisted downward, the air growing colder and heavier with

each step. My mind screamed warnings.

I ignored them.

The passage opened suddenly into a vast chamber. And all the golden grandeur of Sundralis vanished. This was dark and damp and made the hair on my arms prickle. At its center stood a stone dais, and upon it, a swirling,

black vortex.

And it was closing.

The edges contracted even as I watched, reality knitting itself back together. But in that moment, I felt it—the faintest echo of Thatcher, a flicker of our bond coming from beyond the portal.

I hurled myself toward the dais. Thatcher?

No response. But I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he was there.

Somewhere beyond that collapsing gateway.

There was no time to find Marx. No time to get help. No time to think about what might wait on the other side.

I leapt through the closing tear, power surging around me as reality screamed in protest. The transition was violent. My body was stretched, compressed, twisted in ways that shouldn't have been possible.

Then, with a sickening lurch, I was thrown forward onto cold stone. The portal snapped shut behind me with a hiss.

I pushed myself to my knees, gasping.

Before me rose a structure—a grotesque thing of black stone and twisted metal, its spires reaching toward a sky that contained no stars, no moons, no sun—only a vast, empty nothing.

An emblem was carved viciously into the stone. A circle with a crack

splitting it.

A temple. But for who?

I had no idea where I was. This place matched no realm I'd ever studied, no domain I'd ever heard described. It existed nowhere in the maps of Voldaris.

A spark at my fingertips tore my gaze down. Starlight crackled and

hissed around my hands.

It had only done that once before.

At the ruins of the Primordial War.