Celestial Plane
The golden strands of fate dimmed one by one.
Aurora stood from her throne.
The light behind her blinked, then warped—as if even causality itself hesitated. Her long cloak of starlit mist trailed behind her as she stepped down from the floating dais, boots clicking lightly on the invisible glass that stretched over a cosmos of spiraling lights and fragmenting realities.
With a flick of her hand, a circular sigil pulsed outwards—carved not in magic, but in absolute causality. It raced across the multiverse like a flare no entity could ignore.
One by one, the chosen responded.
First arrived: Alfred, flame trailing behind his crimson boots, his hands still warm from whatever battlefield he'd left behind. His coat fluttered open, revealing the silver sigil of the Origin Pantheon across his chest. He didn't smile. Not here.
"Felt that all the way from our origin universe," he said, his voice sharp. "This isn't just a warning, is it?"
