The first thing the divine agent did was lock the sky.
The light above the courtyard folded inward like a closing eye. Clouds froze mid-drift. Wind died, even sound seemed to hesitate, as though the world itself was waiting for permission to continue.
Every choice froze, every priest fell to one knee, every divine thread snapped taut.
Only Eron and I remained standing.
The agent hovered several paces above the stone ground, wings of condensed radiance stretching wide—too precise to be natural, too controlled to be alive. This was not a god, not fully.
This was an executor.
A blade the heavens sent when observation failed.
Its gaze passed over the trembling trainees, the priests, the shattered illusions—then settled on me.
Not Eron but me.
“You,” it said, voice layered, harmonic, i
