The Guardian gods-Chapter 555

"You could have stood beside us when this moment came," Vellok said, voice low and sharp. "But you wouldn’t listen. And now—now your grand ideas, your noble little crusade, it’s all turned against you. Instead of shaping the war, you’ll be its instrument. A pawn, dancing across the battlefield for the glory of others."

He tapped the iron shackle clasped around Kaelen’s wrist. A small clang echoed through the room. Reflexively, Kaelen tensed, his muscles coiling but instinct took over immediately as he calmed down. Sweat clung to his back, cold and sudden, as his gaze locked with Vellok’s.

Golden light pulsed from Vellok’s eyes—unblinking, alien, and full of quiet fury. Kaelen held the gaze for only a moment before looking away. He hated himself for that.

The Emperor stepped forward, resting a hand gently on Vellok’s shoulder as if to steady a weapon not yet unsheathed. His expression was composed, almost weary, as he regarded Kaelen.

"We were never the brothers we should have been," the Emperor said softly. "But part of me hoped... perhaps foolishly... that someday, we would stand side by side. If you had waited just a little longer, Kaelen, that future might have been real."

A low, bitter laugh escaped Kaelen’s throat. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t even mockery—it was disappointment, wrapped in exhaustion.

"If either of you had listened to me—if you had just considered what I said—we wouldn’t be scrabbling to salvage what’s left of our legacy." He looked between them. "The ogres, the ratfolk... they were willing to stand with us. But you—your pride couldn’t make room for the idea that anyone outside your bloodline deserved a seat at the table."

Vellok snorted, rising to his feet with slow contempt.

"We are the superior race," he said, each word deliberate, etched with conviction. "This world is our rightful claim. Why should we beg for favors from rodents when we have the power to take what we want? You think they’d have simply handed it over? You’re a fool, Kaelen. Kindness doesn’t forge empires—strength does." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

The Emperor turned without another word. His robes whispered across the stone floor, the faint shimmer of power that had clung to the room dissipating with each step he took. And just like that, his presence was gone—like a shadow retreating with the dawn. The weight he left behind, however, remained like a storm cloud pressed against Kaelen’s chest.

Only Vellok lingered now.

The silence between them was sharp, oppressive. Vellok stared down at his brother, eyes no longer glowing, but no less intense. Disappointment carved deep lines into his face, and for a moment, something else flickered behind his gaze—regret, perhaps. Or contempt.

"Your little apprentice, Nixbolt," Vellok said flatly, as if the name left a sour taste on his tongue. "He’ll be there with you. Do with him as you will."

There was no affection in the way he said it. No recognition of the bond Kaelen and the young "goblin" shared. Just a dismissive offering, like throwing scraps to a beast.

Without waiting for a response, Vellok turned and raised his hand. A shimmer split the air beside him, folding open into a jagged portal of pale, shifting light. He stepped through without a glance back, and the portal sealed behind him with a sound like tearing silk.

Kaelen was left alone in the silence.

Meanwhile, far beneath the palace walls, in the quiet dark of the imperial cells, Rattan waited.

Days—or perhaps weeks—had passed. He wasn’t sure anymore. Time blurred in a place like this. The guards brought food. Clean water. Sometimes a new set of clothes. But no questions, no interrogations. No words at all.

It was like he didn’t exist.

Until today.

The door to his cell slammed open without warning, iron clattering against stone. Before he could speak, rough hands seized him, dragging him up from the cold floor. Chains clamped around his wrists and ankles with mechanical precision. He tried to protest, but no words escaped him—whether from fear, confusion, or some spell laid over his tongue, he couldn’t tell.

They didn’t speak to him. Didn’t look him in the eyes. They just moved.

Through corridors he barely remembered, past shadowed halls and descending stairs, deeper and deeper underground. With every step, a knot tightened in his stomach. He knew this place.

He remembered the stone, the strange hum in the walls, the air tinged with arcane pressure. It clawed at his mind with memories he would rather forget.

Not again.

They reached a vast underground chamber. A circular platform, ancient and massive, dominated the center. Strange runes—half worn, half recently re-etched—glowed faintly beneath a layer of dust. The magic pulsing through the floor was old and patient, like a heartbeat slowed by centuries.

The portal platform.

It had been upgraded since the last time he saw it. Smoother edges. Stabilizing crystals arranged in precise symmetry. Guards and mages moved along the edges in disciplined silence, eyes averted, expressions unreadable. But none of that mattered.

Because the meaning hadn’t changed.

This place was still a gateway to war.

Rattan stood at the threshold of the portal, the swirling energy crackling softly before him. It cast long shadows across his face, illuminating the lines of unease etched deep into his features.

He knew this place.

Not just the stone underfoot, or the scent of ozone that clung to the magic—but the very scene waiting beyond the portal. He had dreamed of it. He had bled because of it. It was the moment that had set him on the path that changed everything—the betrayal, the desperation, the endless years of pretending.

Even now, the skin he wore—a well-crafted goblin guise designed to avoid detection—felt tight and unnatural, like an old costume he had long since outgrown. That disguise, which had once kept him safe, now felt useless against the tides of fate.

Even this form couldn’t save him now.

There was no turning away. No illusion strong enough to hide from what waited on the other side. As if some cosmic thread had been tied long ago, pulling him forward, dragging him toward a fate he’d tried to outrun.

Then, without ceremony, they unchained him. His wrists burned where the metal had bit into them, but no one met his eyes. A mage wordlessly handed him his staff—old wood, worn smooth by time and use. The moment his fingers curled around it, a spark returned to his posture. Not strength. Not confidence. Just... presence.

He stepped forward.

Crossed the threshold.

And emerged into a world just familiar enough to haunt him.

The light here was muted, the air thick with tension and the scent of wet earth and blood. The platform beneath his feet hummed with residual magic, the echo of the portal still fading behind him. He looked up.

There standing some distance away—was the figure they told him would be waiting.

An ogre, armored from head to toe, the intricate runes etched into the plating glowing faintly with stored energy. His massive frame was still as stone, the breeze rustling the edges of his cloak but drawing no response.

Kaelen.

Once, Rattan would have dropped to one knee before him. He had followed him. Trusted him. Believed in what they could have built together. But the man before him now—this wasn’t the Kaelen he remembered.

The fire was gone from his eyes. His shoulders sagged under the weight of something heavier than armor. There was no commanding aura, no regal posture. Just a towering figure hollowed out by time and disappointment.

Kaelen’s eyes met his. There was no recognition of rank. No anger. No warmth.

Only his voice, flat and distant, like frost forming on a blade.

"Let’s go."

It wasn’t an order.

It was a statement of inevitability.

To Rattan, the station was a paradox. It was a war machine, preparing for a brutal conflict, yet it hummed with an almost serene efficiency. The distant echoes of the battlefield—demons clashing with ratfolk, glimpses caught through a scope or a conjured spell—were a constant, jarring reminder of the violence unfolding elsewhere. But within the station’s reinforced walls, it was as if that chaos had never been their destination, even though Rattan knew it was.

He’d initially been bewildered by the disconnect. There were no frantic calls for strategic discussions, no maps unfurled with animated debates. Instead, he was simply assigned his own room, given a suit of armor, and left to his own devices. The message was clear: stay low, and wait.

It took time, but Rattan eventually understood the chilling logic behind the station’s calm. This wasn’t a temporary staging ground. Once fully mobilized, there would be no looking back, no retreat until their objective was achieved. The station’s quiet wasn’t indifference; it was the focused, unyielding resolve of a force committed to a singular, irreversible path.

In the background, the signs of their impending deployment were subtle but undeniable. Rune-armored ogres assembled with an imposing, methodical silence, their massive forms dwarfing the surrounding architecture. Occasionally, a goblin mage would flit past, their presence a fleeting whisper of arcane power amidst the metallic sheen of the ogres’ armor. Yet, even with these preparations, the station maintained its unnerving tranquility.

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