Chapter 14 ELLA
I looked from one to the other, and my throat went dry.
Gods above, they were all handsome as sin.
Not the clean, polished kind of handsome, either, no, this was the dangerous, carved-from-starlight-and-shadow kind.
Two of them looked older, heavier with years, but the rest?
They could’ve walked out of some immortal warlord calendar spread.
Every last one of them scared the hell out of me.
The hall itself didn’t help. It was enormous, the ceilings were lost in darkness, and the walls were lined with what looked like frozen starfields.
The table at the center wasn’t wood or stone, more like obsidian, veined with light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Under my feet, the floor thrummed, alive, like standing on the skin of some sleeping giant that might wake if I breathed too loudly.
I pulled my courage tighter and tried not to gape. So this was the Council of Seven. Great. Just great. They weren’t just men; they were storms caged in flesh. And right now, six storms were staring at me like I’d crash-landed naked in the middle of their war council.
One of them stepped closer, his aura burned crimson like molten suns, and Zaph’s sword was instantly in the air.
The man—god? titan? whatever the hell he was—didn’t even blink.
He was up before I could blink, and then he and Zaph were locked in a battle of strength and will.
Both their biceps strained, swelled to unimaginable ropes that made my heart beat faster.
I couldn't help it. It was just so… primal.
The other's eyes glowed with fire and arrogance, like he’d eaten battles for breakfast.
“Not. One. Step. Closer,” Zaph snarled, and the blade hummed with the promise of blood.
The man’s aura flared hotter, a furnace ready to consume.
I feared for the worst and held on to Zaph's shirt, but kept myself ready to jump out of the way, should the standoff end in an actual sword fight.
Good grief. Aliens had abducted me, moved through a black hole, defied everything that physics said to be impossible, and here I stood, staring at two gods about to fight each other with swords.
An older voice rolled across the hall, deep and steady as mountains. “Lower the weapon, Zapharos. Step back, Thyros.”
I snapped my gaze to the speaker. He wasn’t as young as the others—his hair was silver-shot, his aura more controlled—but gods, the weight of him was crushing. One word from him and the whole room stilled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in the shadows. One of them lounged in the darkness, watching with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. His gaze slid over me, calculating and hungry. The kind of man who didn’t need a sword, because lies and secrets were already weapons in his hands.
And then the mad one—the one with fever-bright eyes—laughed, high and cracked, shouting, “She is your Aelyth! Our Aelyth have returned! Don’t you see it? Don’t you taste it?" His joy was wild and terrible, like someone watching the world burn and calling it art.
Shit. I should never have agreed to this.
They weren’t men. Not really. They were the remnants of a dying cosmos, ancient gods who had forgotten what it meant to be mortal.
And here I was, barely clothed in a sheet—Zaph hadn't even given me time to put on proper clothing before I was lurched once again through space—clutching him like he was the only shield I had left. Which, in all honesty, he was.
Before anyone else could explode, another figure stepped forward.
His aura was quieter than the others, not a roaring inferno or a wild storm, but something steadier, like the hush of a library where every word mattered.
His presence was still immense—godlike, yes—but it carried weight instead of fire.
“I am Selkaris,” he said in a calm voice that carried easily in the vast hall. “Arbiter of Memory. It seems you have been thrown into our midst without preparation. My apologies for that, and please allow me to remedy it.”
One by one, he gestured to the others, introducing them in turn.
Thyros—the fiery one who’d crossed swords with Zaph.
Dravok—the shadow-lurker with a smirk sharp enough to slice.
Vaelion—the rock-solid voice of reason, aura bright with a soldier’s discipline.
Nythor—the mad-eyed one who was still chuckling to himself like he’d swallowed a prophecy.
Ozyrael—the smooth diplomat whose smile was all silk, but whose gaze cut sharper than politics back home.
And finally, Zapharos. His title rang heavier than the others: Praetor of War.
He had told me this before, but hearing his title now from this man made it take on a new light.
Like it was a crown and curse all at once.
I tried to lock their names to their faces, just like I used to at faculty meetings or endless museum board reviews, when remembering who hated what and who meant surviving the day.
God help me, I was good at this. Names, faces, roles—filed away—survival 101.
Selkaris’ eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “Come. Sit. It is easier to face us from a chair than from trembling knees.”
I hadn’t even realized my knees were trembling until he said it. With a breath that I hoped sounded braver than I felt, I stepped toward the seat he indicated—a sleek thing carved of stone that appeared more like a throne than a chair.
Gratefully, I sat, pulling the folds of my sheet tightly around me.
Zaph didn’t sit. Of course he didn’t. A mirror opposite me showed him standing right behind me, one hand on the back of the chair, the other hovering by his hip, where I assumed he kept his invisible sword.
His aura flared black and red like a warning banner.
His stare tracked every movement the others made, ready to cut one of them down if they so much as leaned wrong in my direction.
Yet, I could feel it in the way he stilled behind me that he wanted to see what they would do, what they would have to say.
Selkaris moved with a kind of solemn grace, taking his place at the obsidian table.
At his gesture, the others followed, each choosing a seat like kings lowering themselves onto thrones.
The air thickened instantly. All staring at me like I was a dessert thrown at starving men—burning, cutting, calculating. Hungry in their own ways.
I froze, my fingers curling into the arms of the chair.
Every instinct screamed at me to get up, to retreat behind Zaph’s broad frame and let him take the heat.
He was right there, solid and immovable, a shield of crimson and black looming just at my back.
But Selkaris’ gaze held mine. It was steady and not unkind, grounding me somewhat.
“You are brave to sit among us,” he said quietly. “Few mortals could bear the weight of this chamber. Even fewer would dare to look us in the eye.”
Brave. If only he knew how much of me wanted to bolt.
“Do not mistake us,” Selkaris went on, his voice carrying to the others as much as to me. “We are predators, yes—bound to our roles, to the Abyss and to Auris Prime. But you are not prey.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him. Not with Thyros’ fire still simmering, not with Dravok’s shadows coiled like knives, not with Nythor whispering Aelyth, Aelyth under his breath like he’d just spotted the apocalypse in my lap.
Still, I forced myself to lift my chin. I wasn’t prey. Not with Zaph’s hand braced behind me, and not with every ounce of stubbornness I had left. Selkaris folded his hands on the table; his aura was dim and steady compared to the flare of the others.
"What is your name, dear?"
"Ella," I omitted my last name; it just didn't seem important in the grand scheme of things.
“Tell us, Ella,” he said, speaking my name like it was already etched into his vault of memories. “From where did you come? What life was yours before you crossed paths with Zapharos?”
My mouth opened, habit, instinct, the part of me that answered questions in boardrooms and on excavation sites. “I was—”
“She was taken by the Cryons,” Zaph cut in, his voice a blade that snapped the air in two. “Dragged from her world and left as a sacrifice on Rotodex with others.”
I glanced up at him, caught between gratitude and irritation. I wasn’t helpless. I could answer for myself. But his presence loomed like a shield, daring me to contradict him.
Selkaris nodded slowly, filing it away. “And yet, she survived.” His dark eyes flicked to me again. “You must have resourcefulness. Strength.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Or just a knack for bad luck,” I muttered.
A faint smile tugged at the Arbiter’s mouth. “Luck favors few. Survival favors fewer.”
Before I could think of a comeback, Dravok’s voice slid from the shadows. “What do you feel when you stand beside him?” His gaze sharpened, glinting like a predator circling. “Does the black in him frighten you? Or do you crave it?”
My breath caught; his question was too personal, too sharp.
“She feels nothing of the sort,” Zaph snapped, in the mirror, his aura flared like a storm about to break. His hand tightened on the back of my chair, making the warning clear.
Selkaris raised one hand, calm as ever. “Peace, Praetor. Let her speak.”
“She will not be baited by your riddles,” Zaph snarled, glaring past me at Dravok.
The shadows only seemed to curl darker around him in answer, but he leaned back, his smirk widening, satisfied at having struck a nerve. I wondered if Dravok had been baiting me or Zaph.
I drew a shaky breath, surprised at the sound of my own voice cutting through the tension. “I come from a place called Earth.”
Every head tilted toward me, some curious, some predatory.