Beneath the oldest mountain, far from any mortal tongue or time-worn altar, a god stirred in his sleep.
Not a kind god.
Not one who blessed harvests or listened to prayers.
This one had been carved from the marrow of silence, forged in the last breath of the first dying star. A creature of law, of balance, of chains.
They called him the Arbiter.
And when Rose spoke Caelir’s name—truly spoke it—the Arbiter felt it.
He opened no eyes, for he had none.
But he saw.
And he remembered.
The girl who should not have been. The soul born of paradox. Of harmony and rebellion.
The child Seraphiel had dared shield.
The flame Ashen had nearly died protecting.
The girl Caelir had tried to hide from fate itself.
Now she had found his name.
And the game changed.
All across the divine realm,
