The Covenant Chamber had not yet stilled. The echo of Vaerros's laughter lingered, the roar of the crowd still rolling across continents. Humanity had passed the Rite of Measure. The Seats had acknowledged it. And yet the chamber seemed to hold its breath, for one question remained.

The tenth throne had formed.

It hovered dark and waited at the arc of the circle, black stone alive with threads of Vaylora. But it was empty.

The delegations saw an opportunity.

A prime minister half-rose, his hand slapping his leg, "Who speaks for us?"

A general's medals clinked as he leaned forward, barking, "Our soldiers bled for our nations, not for children to play politics!"

A bishop slammed his scripture shut with trembling hands. "The Seat belongs to God's will, not human pride."

Translators stammered, their voices overlapping, each struggling to capture the madness in a dozen tongues at once.

Chaos surged, voices clashing, translators stumbling to keep up.

The Seats watched in silence. They did not deliberate. They did not bargain. They simply observed humanity fighting itself.

Shango leaned against the railing near his fellows, bruised but grinning. "Bloody Hell. They're worse than the fight," he muttered.

Amaterasu's flame-flecked eyes darted to him, then to the dark throne. She shook her head. "It isn't us they're arguing for. It's themselves."

But a voice cut through the din, smooth and final.

"The Rite was not passed by your parliaments or your pulpits." The Conductor boomed, his voice clearly annoyed. "It was passed by those who fought."

Silence fell like a curtain. Even the translators stopped.

All eyes followed the Seat's gesture. They passed over Mythara, who stood aloof. They looked towards Shango, who laughed off the notion with a shrug and a shake of his head. They looked towards the Conductor, whose gaze fell on Amaterasu.

She froze. She was not the loudest of them, nor the most violent. But she was creation's rebirth, light wrapped in human shape. Matriarch of what humanity could become.

The delegations erupted again.

"Impossible!"

"She's a child!"

"One girl cannot represent billions!"

Ferradon slammed his fist against his throne. The chamber quaked. "Your armies are not here, nor did they fight for your seat. Human girl, get your people in order."

The reminder of where they stood, whose house they stood within, cut the delegations off at the root. They shifted, furious, but quiet.

Slowly, Amaterasu stepped forward. She floated into the air and stood before her throne tentatively.

"This is just a placeholder. If you desire, we can create a throne more to your liking." Zyvaroth informed her.

Amaterasu looked over her shoulder at the delegation and then sighed,

"No need."

She placed her hand upon the empty throne. The obsidian seat shivered under her touch. Threads of Vaylora curled from her palm, and the stone began to glow, soft at first, then molten. Gasps rippled through the chamber as black crystal wept into fire, and fire hardened into a new form.

The throne did not shatter. It changed.

Obsidian became veined with what looked like moving gold and crimson, as though flame itself had been poured into the stone and left to cool. The arms of the chair curved outward like protective wings, their surfaces glowing faintly warm, never burning. From the backrest rose a fan of radiant stone, curling upward in arcs that evoked dawn or the rising sun— a sunburst frozen in mid-rise.

The fan of radiant stone unfurled, the warmth of her presence settling into the chamber like the first sunlight. The delegation forgot to breathe.

"I have no intention of unilaterally making decisions for our species. You have no power, but you are my elders. I will listen to your counsel, no voice will be greater than the other, and I will make the best decisions based on that counsel."

The glow of her new throne lingered in the chamber, casting every figure in gold and crimson. The Human Seat no longer looked borrowed. It belonged.

Cefketa said nothing, but his faint smile was one he could not quite smother. For a heartbeat, he looked at her not as a rival or an enemy, but like a proud father.

"He's always bringing such interesting humans." The 7th Seat Lunara smirked as he looked at Cefketa and then back at Amaterasu.

The Leviathan Matriarch tilted her head, unreadable, but for the faintest shift of her lips. Approval. In her silence was recognition of another who carried authority without needing to roar.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Vaerros, the Titan Orc, who had only moments before threatened to turn her champion into dust, gave a tusked grin and a low rumble of laughter. "At least she looks the part," he said.

And Zyvaroth, the First Seat, leaned back into the shadows, eyes glinting crimson. His grin cut sharper than tusks or flame. "Humanity has found its matriarch, and she has chosen her council. Very well, then, in celebration, how about we give the world a taste of what's to come?" Zyvartoth, with pale gold eyes, scanned the room and then clapped his hands.

At his signal, the room began to change. The arena did not change into a banquet hall. Instead, it formed into its original appearance. The now 10 Thrones hovered in the air, beneath them a singular obsidian platform. Outside the platform, the Tiny Tots and the world's delegation stood. The endless sea of stars looked down on them from the ceiling.

The doors opened, and a crowd of creatures began to flood into the room. Most noticeable among them was Sage and the Twins.

"What is this?" One of the delegation cried out.

"A Seat does not decide in solitude. We are ever bound to the counsel of the trusted and the wise. Should this moment be any different, as we open our covenant to humanity?" Sylvaira's soothing voice penetrated the hearts and minds of the human delegation, putting them at ease.

The human gallery in the chamber held its breath. The glow of Amaterasu's throne shone like the stars above them. For the first time since humanity had entered Firmatha Sangaur, there was no question of legitimacy, no hesitation about who spoke for them. The Human Seat was claimed, and none dared dispute it. But awe is a fragile thing, and already, beneath the warmth of her flame, ambition began to stir.

At first, their words were careful, wrapped in gratitude. "We are grateful," one president said, smoothing his tie. "But symbolism alone cannot feed our people."

Another leaned on his cane, voice trembling with calculation. "Yes. Energy. Healing. Transport. Teach us these things, and we will stand as equals."

Murmurs rolled. Gratitude soured into hunger. Their voices sharpened, greed clothed as diplomacy.

Another chimed in. "Yes. Your technology—the Systems you weave, your methods..."

Then came the word that changed the air:

"Vaylora."

A murmur of agreement rolled across the human leaders. Their fear of annihilation had curdled, in the wake of Shango's display, into something else: entitlement.

The 7th seat, Lunara spoke, voice calm. "Firmatha Sangaur has always shared. Our knowledge is not hoarded. We will show you how to weave your machines into nature, not against it. To let your towers breathe, your ships sing, your weapons heal as much as they harm."

Ferradon grunted, stroking his beard of braids. "Teaching children to hold a hammer comes before giving them the forge."

But the delegations were not soothed; they pressed harder.

A delegate from the West rose, voice sharp. "This… Vaylora. You speak of it like it's nothing. But what is it really? It looks like magic." His lip curled. "And humanity has bled enough under such myths."

Another minister added. "Yes—we've seen this story before. Power cloaked in ritual, sold as destiny. If this Vaylora is not sorcery, prove it—give us everything."

Sylvaira, the Elven 4th Seat, turned her gaze upon them. "You are wrong in one respect," she said, voice smooth as water. "Vaylora is not magic. It is the conclusion of your own science."

The chamber stilled. Even the humans leaned in.

Amaterasu rose from her new throne, her flame a soft glow at her shoulders. "We called it dark matter. We called it the god particle. We gave it so many theoretical names because we couldn't prove it existed. Vaylora is the answer we've been looking for. Our technology was never advanced enough to find it. Even Chasers stumbled onto it, via nanites and serums."

Sylvaira inclined her head toward her. "It does not stand against your physics. It fulfills them. Where your equations fall short, Vaylora carries them forward. To us, it is as ordinary as the pull of gravity."

A silence followed, but it was not disbelief. It was hunger.

The delegations looked at one another, calculations flashing behind their eyes.

A curious scientist in the gallery called out first, his voice trembling with awe. "If it is science, then let us study it as science. Recorded, tested, replicated. Why hide it unless you fear us knowing too much?"

The chamber began to boil again, greed cutting through awe.

A politician added, his tone sharpening. "Without it, our economies collapse before yours. Equality is impossible unless you hand us the whole of it."

Their greed was naked now. Shango's victory had intoxicated them. If one boy could humble Vaerros, then surely humanity held a power advantage. Surely the other two in the Trinity were as strong. Not to mention the other Persequions had to be somewhat near them in power. Surely the Seats' generosity meant fear.

Then came the breaking voice, sharp as steel. "No riddles. No half-truths. Deliver everything you know—or admit you mean to make enemies of humanity."

A chilling sigh snapped the air. Every nonhuman throat in the Chamber went still.

Cefketa rose. The still air shifted, his robe falling loose from one shoulder to reveal scales that shimmered with starlight. His mouth did not move. His voice was not sound but certainty, pressed into the marrow of every being present — not heard through the screens, but felt in their bones.

"Enemies," he repeated, tasting the word as though it were foreign. "That implies back and forth."

He stepped down from his throne, obsidian shuddering under his weight. His violet gaze froze throats mid-breath. Black scales spread, wings unfurled, horns rose—but it was not his body that broke them. The air thickened until lungs seized. Ozone burned in nostrils. Hearts stuttered. For some, the world simply went black. For the first time in 2 years, Cefketa unleashed the full might of his Dragon Fear.

It was felt instantly; everyone in the room, human or creature alike, dropped to their knees. Of those unaffected, there only stood a few.

The three most powerful Seats endured. Amaterasu stood with them, flame steady—yet her hand trembled once against the throne, a single flicker of strain swallowed by her fire. She could not let the world see her falter. The Rest of the Trinity felt the weight of that pressure and, after straining for some time, were brought to their knees.

"Amongst humanity," Cefketa said softly, "I have no enemies. I have friends… or victims. Which would you prefer?"

Pride shattered. Knees buckled. Cameras shook. In the storm of Dragon Fear, humanity's ambition collapsed into silence.

But when the storm broke, one figure still stood.

When the Dragon Fear washed over the chamber, humanity folded. Knees struck stone, prayers broke into sobs, and heads bowed without command. Yet in the sea of bent spines, one figure remained upright.

Mythara.

He did not strain. He did not brace. He simply was. A buoy in a storm no ocean could drown.

Delegates lifted their eyes through tears and terror, not to Amaterasu, not to Shango, but to him — as if instinct knew where safety lived.

Across the planet, broadcasts caught the same image: one boy standing as if the storm had passed him by. Millions who had never spoken his name whispered it now.

He scoffed once, and in that sound the world remembered it could breathe. The dragon's fear faded like dust.

Cefketa smiled. A quiet, dangerous smile.

Your move.

The Chamber of the Covenant was no banquet hall, no stage of equals. It was an arena still — and humanity had only just taken its first step inside.

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