Eodas vision #

The moment you close your eyes, you fall — but not through space. Through memory not your own.

You hit the ground — hard. Cold, radiant stone beneath your palms. A floor — not of marble or granite, but carved from celestial matter that hums beneath your skin.

Chains rattle nearby.

You lift your head.

They are there — two figures, kneeling, chained to the floor, not thrones. No honor. No dignity. Just shackles etched with the words of gods, holding them in place like insects before a tribunal.

The man is broad-shouldered, beaten but unbowed — Eoda, mortal king of the first realm. You don’t know how you know his name, but you do. The woman beside him is slighter, elven in form, silver-haired, bleeding from the mouth — but her eyes… they are fierce as stars. His queen.

Chains of blinding light stretch from their wrists and throats to the walls. They glow with divine force, yet cut like rusted steel.

High above, the gods look down from a floating halo of light — impassive, vast, so tall their faces vanish into cosmic haze. One speaks — its voice not sound but law, echoing in your soul:

“Eoda. You stand accused of breaking the balance. You wielded both the Source… and the Essence of Oblivion.”

Eoda lifts his bloodied face — and he laughs. Not madly, but bitterly — like a soldier laughing in the rain.

“Your balance was broken long before me. I only dared to use what you were too afraid to touch.”

Another voice answers, colder:

“You have corrupted the weave of reality. Your soul is too dangerous to remain unbound.”

He strains against the chains. His muscles quake. His queen reaches for his hand — but her wrist is yanked back by light.

“I saved us. I held the line where your kind stood idle. And now you murder us to bury your shame.”

He turns his eyes upward — defiant, furious.

“I spit on your laws. I spit on your fear.”

Pharasma steps forward, and the air around her stills like the breath before a storm. Her voice is not loud — it does not need to be. Each word strikes with the weight of cosmic finality, as if written into the bones of reality.

“I, Pharasma — Goddess of Death and Justice, Keeper of the Final Tally — do hereby render sentence upon Eoda, mortal sovereign of the First Kingdom, and his consort.”

“For the transgression of wielding the Source and the Essence of Oblivion — a convergence forbidden since the Severance — and for conspiring to alter the balance written at the dawn of all cycles…”

“By the authority vested in me through the Accord of Divine Law, Title 56, Paragraph 4 of the Holy Concordance of Realms, I decree: Death by Oblivion.”

A beat. Her voice softens, almost imperceptibly.

“May your deletion stand as a warning to all mortals. This is the will of the Pantheon.”

A new figure descends — not a god, but a servant, cloaked in divine fire. In its hand: a dagger unlike anything you’ve seen. A weapon of Essence of Oblivion — dark, pulsing, veined with moving shadow. The air dies around it.

Eoda’s chains rattle like thunder.

“Touch her, and I will tear your soul from the stars.”

The gods speak in one voice:

“The queen shares your sin. She shares your fate.”

And then — the blade strikes.

She gasps — softly. No scream. Her body begins to burn inward, light collapsing into itself. Her fingers reach for Eoda — they flicker, split apart — her arm dissolves into motes of ash and starlight.

“I’m not afraid…” she whispers.

Her face vanishes last.

Nothing remains. Not bone. Not memory. Not even the chain that held her — it hangs empty, slack and lifeless.

Reality around Eoda shatters. Rage and grief, fused together, explode from within.

He begins to moan — then scream.

The floor cracks outward in lines of black fire. The air folds. Light screams.

The Source and the Essence of Oblivion erupt from within him — two forces never meant to meet, let alone live inside a mortal frame.

Eoda becomes a wound in the world.

The gods move — too late. One is caught in a lash of pure Source — vaporized. Another is swallowed by the Essence — their divine form collapses inward, consumed by corruption. Their end hurts to watch. It tears at your eyes.

He rises from the ground — barely human now, a storm in the shape of a man. His chains melt.

His voice is thunder:

“You wanted me a monster. Then watch. I will show you one.”

Days pass — or seconds. You can’t tell.

At last, they bring him down. Not with weapons. But with fate itself.

The gods twist the threads of destiny — weave his frame into a prison outside time, a scar between cause and effect.

They bind him inside himself, into a place no map can find — where even gods must whisper.

And there he lies. Chained still — but no longer screaming. Waiting.

He lifts his head. His eyes find you.

You should be invisible. You should be nothing.

But he sees you.

“Strange…” he murmurs, voice like distant thunder. “You bear their essence.”

He leans forward. Chains creak.

“But your thread… is woven through mine. We are tangled, you and I. You were written beside me.”

A long pause.

“You will come. One day. You must. Because you are bound by causality… …you are bound to me. On your second death, we will meet — and you will be reborn and hold power, as I did. You will serve me… or become a traitor like him. We shall see.”