Above the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, among the Twelve Apex Thrones, within the Chamber of Thought like a still lake.

“Haydon, why’d you call us in? Another incursion from beyond? Remnants of the Golden Age? Some cursed relic unsealed? If there’s a fight, let me have it.” Her voice cracked like lightning over a ridge.

It was Power who spoke, one of the twin Primordial Deities of strength. She wore only a few ribbons, like wind on marble; her body was the hymn of might itself. She holds authority over force. The greatest need not compromise.

“I agree with Power. We haven’t held a Primordial Council in ages. If force is needed, just summon us to descend. No need for all this ceremony.” His words hit like hammer on anvil.

Force, her twin, stood in contrast. He’d removed his helm out of courtesy, yet heavy armor still wrapped him like a cliff at night; his muscles swelled like coiled mountains. He holds authority over force. The highest decides all.

“The Twelve Seats should be filled by twelve Primordial Deities. But Element is repairing torn space like a seamstress under storm. Balance is helping Sun stabilize order, like a hand steadying a swaying lantern. Death found a drift in his domain and is correcting it, like a ferryman trimming his course. With three Primordials absent, I doubt we can reach consensus.” His tone spread wide as a horizon.

Infinite, an old man in a lavish robe that billowed like a galaxy, hid his true form in all that cloth. He holds authority over breadth, vastness, and the wide. Every breadth has its meaning.

“You think Haydon didn’t account for that? It’s been ten thousand years. When’s he ever wrong? Let’s hear him first.” Her voice was a narrow blade, polished and precise.

Narrow patted her fitted dress smooth; it lay on her like a scabbard over steel. Politeness was her perfume, cool as spring shade. She holds authority over the confined and the limited. Limits in part are enough.

“I believe we should wait. We made a pact, so we must keep it.” His words were stones in a river, simple and unmoved.

Appoint, bound in layered chains like winter frost, moved with deliberate clumsiness. He took a goblet from a star-servant and sipped like tasting moonlight. He holds authority over oaths and constraint. All things bear iron laws.

“But waiting on a vote is too slow. We don’t know what Haydon saw, or how urgent it is. We don’t know when Balance and the others can break free. Maybe we should press them. Life is short.” Her protest rose like a flock bursting from reeds.

Life shouted, and her lace skirt fanned up around her like petals in a gust. She holds authority over birth and continuance. To exist is to move; to move is life.

“Whatever it is, let’s hear Haydon first. If it’s minor, those of us here can decide. If it’s grave, we’ll debate and settle it after. Either way, we hear him first.” Their voice rang like rain on many roofs.

Possible spread open both hands, pleading. Their outfit was a collage that shifted like clouds; even their gender was a ripple, never fixed. They hold authority over hope and change. All is permitted; all is possible.

Time stood wrapped head to toe in bandages, even his eyes veiled, a staff in hand, and said nothing. Time watches, eternal and aloof.

The Divine Being on the throne kept waiting, like a mountain holding dawn, until the others quieted and could hear.

No joy, no sorrow showed on that face—beyond face, beyond form—an unsayable greatness like a name the world can’t pronounce.

Under his gaze, their quarrel thinned like smoke in rain. Silence gathered like falling snow, and they waited for him to speak.

He said:

“My friends, I’ve seen the future. It’s a mournful future,”

“I must say this. Will you hear more?”

The guide of the gods, the piercer of futures—Wisdom God Haydon—opened his eyes, and the Primordial Council began like a dawn breaking glaciers. Light flared from his gaze, too great to bear; even gods could not meet it. The holiness was so pure, witnessing felt like a trespass.

He holds authority over wisdom, and within it, over the very notion of “future.”

The gods waited for his guidance, like sailors holding breath for the next wind.

“Then…”

Haydon spoke:

“I say…”

…