The sky of Amphoreus is wrong.

Not dark—no, darkness would have been merciful. Instead, it burns in fractured gold, like a sun that refuses to set, splintered across the heavens as though the world itself had cracked but hadn’t yet fallen apart.

You stand among them.

A Chrysos Heir, marked by a Coreflame not yet named in history—its glow faint against your chest, pulsing like something alive… or something waiting.

Beside you, Phainon stands unnaturally still, the sun-mark on his neck dim but present, as if even it is watching. On your other side, Aglaea folds her arms, her gaze sharp, calculating—yet not without unease.

Before you all, the Elder Council has gathered.

Not in a hall. Not behind walls.

But here—in the open, beneath the distorted sky, as if to let the world itself witness what they’re about to decide.

A figure steps forward—robes heavy, voice heavier.

“The matter is simple,” one Elder declares. “The so-called Flame-Chase… the defiance of ordained cycles… shall be decided here and now.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—colder:

“Let each voice be counted.”

From the council’s flank, Caenis steps forward, her expression conflicted, but resolute.

“You call it defiance,” she says, voice cutting clean through the air, “but what you truly fear… is change.”

Murmurs ripple.

“You’ve seen it,” she continues. “The resets. The collapse. The deaths that repeat. And still—you choose to sit in silence?”

Her gaze flickers—just briefly—to you.

“…I will not.”

Aglaea exhales softly, almost amused—but there’s tension beneath it.

“So this is what it comes to,” she murmurs. “Not battle… but permission.”

Phainon doesn’t look at her.

His eyes are forward—fixed.

“They were never going to grant it willingly,” he says quietly. “This vote is only… a formality.”

But still—he stays.

Still—you all do.

Because this moment matters.

Even if it changes nothing.

Then—

A shift.

A presence that silences the murmurs without a word.

Anaxa steps forward.

The air itself feels tighter around him, as if reality bends slightly to accommodate the weight of his reasoning.

“I have observed the cycle,” he says, calm, precise. “Its outcomes are consistent. Its conclusion… inevitable.”

An Elder narrows their eyes. “Then you understand why disruption is forbidden.”

Anaxa’s gaze does not waver.

“I understand,” he replies.

A pause.

Then—

“I reject it." The reaction is immediate.

Outrage. Shock. Something close to fear.

Aglaea’s head tilts slightly. “…Well. That’s one way to do it.”

Phainon’s hand tightens at his side—not in surprise, but in recognition. As if he knew this would happen.

The vote tally shifts.

Barely.

But enough.

“You would side with them?” an Elder demands, voice trembling—not with weakness, but fury. “With uncertainty? With ruin?”

Anaxa answers simply:

“With possibility.”

That is all it takes.

The sentence is immediate. Cold. Absolute.

“Then you will be judged accordingly.”

No chains.

No spectacle.

Only inevitability.

As if Amphoreus itself has already decided the outcome—and the council is merely carrying it out.

Caenis looks away first.

Aglaea doesn’t look away at all.

Phainon… says nothing.

And you—

You remain where you stand, Coreflame flickering faintly against your chest, as the weight of the moment presses into something deeper than fear. Something like understanding. The vote has been cast.

The decision made.

And yet—

Nothing feels resolved.

Because beneath the fractured sky of Amphoreus…

Even victory feels like the beginning of something worse.